A Song of Smith and Wesson
by therealcromar
Summary: Catelyn had come to the Twins for a wedding. Among her children, only Robb remained both alive and free, but a sudden betrayal threatened to snuff out the last hope of the North. Guest right has been broken. What say the gods? The story starts with the Red Wedding and explores an...alternate outcome, to put it mildly. Featuring POVs from Catelyn, Arya, Sansa, Tyrion, & Davos.
1. Catelyn I

CATELYN

"Jaime Lannister sends his regards."

Catelyn's heart pounded in her chest and tears stained her cheeks. The poor fool whimpered against her shaking body, but she kept her little blade firm against his skin and the bulging artery underneath. The man in the pink cloak drew back his red blade, lowering the point for a killing stroke. Her throat tightened, her lungs burned empty, the world slowed slowed to a crawl, and everything around her vanished except her son and the man with the sword.

 _Bang_.

The sound impacted Catelyn almost as if it had reached out and struck her about the ears. She flinched and shuddered, and the man under her control squealed and squirmed. When her son's would-be killer staggered and dropped to the floor, Robb was holding a smoking dagger waist high - only, it wasn't a dagger. _The shape is all wrong._ The blade was a square hunk of steel with a round hollow at the end, sticking out at an odd angle from a leather grip clutched in the king's bloody fist. Barbs and feathers jutted out of his fine, bloodstained doublet, his face spasmed in agony, and his knees wobbled for one terrifying second, but he managed to keep his feet. Robb raised the weapon high, not towards the fallen figure in the pink cloak, but straight armed and angled in her direction, and before Catelyn could blink away the tears and take in a lungful of smoky air, Robb's knife shot fire from the hollow end and shook all the world around her.

 _Bang_.

Catelyn recoiled and her hand slipped free of the fool's throat, knife edged in red, and the lackwick fell away gasping and clutching his neck. After the terrible noise of Robb's knife, all other sound dimmed to nothing. From the screams and challenges, to the clash of steel-on-steel and the _twang_ of crossbows, all the cacophony of the slaughter disappeared as every eye in the room drew to a point over Catelyn's shoulder.

She turned. Walder Frey was dead.

The late Lord of the Crossing seemed to have… _exploded_ , as if dropped from the walls of Winterfell, _splat,_ headfirst and from a height ten times that of Bran's fall. Yet his body still reclined in the high seat in the middle of the dais, totally unmoved, and his brains and blood covered the wall tapestry in a splatter. Whatever magic had happened here, his head had been dashed suddenly and with great violence against the wall, yet no human hand had been close enough to create the greasy and spreading stain behind him.

Something moved at the edge of Catelyn's vision and she whirled. The rest of the room stared at the horrific corpse in dumbfounded silence, but the King, her son, her little boy, was already pointing his weapon at the nearest Frey man-at-arms. _Bang_ , the knife spoke for him, _bang bang bang_ and his first target dropped dead, followed by the man behind him, blood erupting from their backs and drenching a plush chair that lay overturned nearby. Someone screamed and the trance finally broke. A few still-living men wearing the Direwolf scrambled to retrieve blades from the new corpses, but Robb aimed his weapon towards the rest of the Frey host. The men of the Twins staggered away from them with panicked, half-mad eyes. Both sides shuffled into awkward battle lines, with the Frey men outnumbering Robb's ten-to-one. Men of the flayed man stood at the edge of the room and gaped at both sides, unsure of who to attack and lacking orders from their wounded lord.

"Robb!" Catelyn shouted, but if her son heard her, he paid no heed. She shouted again and pointed up at the crossbowmen on the balcony. They began cranking their weapons as if only now realizing the danger, but Robb saw them and directed his sorcery before they could draw a proper aim. When the fire and cacophony burst from the weapon, it seemed somehow duller, perhaps because the men were screaming at one another or perhaps because of the rapid pounding of Catelyn's own heart. She looked to the open center of the room and realized that the man in pink was gone, a thick, dark blood trail leading around a corner.

Suddenly, the Frey men charged. They did not attack Robb, who they no doubt feared as some terrible sorcerer unleashing the power of the Old Gods, but the tiny band of Direwolf survivors who huddled in the corner with stolen spears and makeshift clubs. Catelyn still held the little knife and hoped to join them, but her legs weren't responding as well as she might want, and despite pouring all her strength into her numb feet, the distance between them seemed impossible to close. The thin blade was useless in her hands against swords and shields, anyway, wholly inadequate compared to whatever nightmarish weapon Robb had found. _I need to do something_.

As if her heard her thoughts, Robb turned suddenly towards her, drew another identical hunk of steel from a strange type of leather sheath under his coat, and flung it towards his mother. Catelyn let the bloody knife drop from her fingers, snatched the device out of the air, spun around in a circle and without thinking, without planning, as if she was born to it, pointed the business end, the round hollow where fire and death had slain the Late Walder Frey, at the astonished face of his crippled son Lothar.

Lame Lothar had almost snuck up her. _Almost, you treacherous bastard_. He'd arranged all of this, she knew. Catelyn's father had told him years ago that Lothar was the real power in the Twins. Since the start of the war she made it her business to learn who each of the Freys were and what dangers they hid behind their eyes. She knew the louts, the drunkards, the fighters of surprising skill, and she knew the man who had arranged this bloody wedding and lured her family in to die with easy smiles and false promises.

So she gripped the weapon with her scarred hand and did exactly as Robb had done. _A crippled hand slays the crippled man._ She let her finger rest on a little metal switch where the leather and steel met, and squeezed.

Catelyn underestimated the power it unleashed. The weapon announced itself with a dull roar and leapt in the air as if trying to escape her grasp, but she reached out with both hands and caught it in a fumble of fingers and steel. When it was back under control, she wrapped her right hand around the grip, found the switch, and this time straight-armed the weapon so her shoulder could take the impact. Blood stung her eyes and she wiped her face clean with her free hand. Lothar stood still, dumbfounded, blood pouring in great rivulets from his chest and stomach down to his crotch and dripping to the floor. Catelyn's ears rung with the sudden burst of power so close and in such a confined space, but she ignored the irrelevant discomfort of the flesh. She would trade her hearing, her sight, her taste and touch and smell, all of it a thousand times just to see Robb through this madness. All magic comes with a price, she knew. _The Old Gods have spoken._ This was the great voice of the ancient, lost gods of the North, her Ned's gods, and they had traveled from the mists of time to this castle of oathbreakers for bloody fucking vengeance.

 _Bang_.

This time, she was ready. Lothar's face ripped apart, revealing the skull and brains beneath. Like his father before him, the traitor's body fell limp and headless, staining the carpet with viscera and a spreading crimson pool. More of the muffled explosions rang around her, and she turned to see Robb blasting the Frey men in the back. They pushed against one another and scrambled over corpses, tables, and chairs, trying to get to the line of Stark men and put them to the sword. Catelyn pointed her weapon towards them and joined Robb in the slaughter. Bodies fell in a tangle, pulling others down with them, and the line shuddered and split to find the source of the carnage or simply flee. Some even desperately held their wood-and-iron shields up to block the magic, as if hoping that human implements could challenge the might of the Old Gods. Instead, the invisible magic flew as an arrow, ripping a hole in the shields and sending painted splinters spinning through the air. Mother and son killed one, two, three, the rest were a blur, and shocks of pain rippled through her arm every time the power erupted from her fist.

The weapon was so trivial to operate that the hardest part was finding enough men to kill. Those cloaked in the Twins scattered, and the flayed men were right behind them. The main entrance to the hall was still barred, and none of the Freys had dared turn their backs to pound on the door. _Fools_. Keeping their face to the terrible power did them no good whatsoever. Some ally on the other side might have let them out, and at least they could have died _trying_ to live.

Eventually the magic seemed to run its course and the weapon functioned no longer, but the gift of the Old Gods had done more than enough damage to the enemy, so much so that it called into question a lifetime of septs and scripture. _A lifetime of waste_. Catelyn closed her eyes and murmured a small prayer to the Old Gods, echoing the words she'd heard Ned say a thousand times. She would repeat it in front of a Weirwood tree, she promised herself, and she would never go back to the Seven, not unless the Old Gods wished it. She would happily spend an eternity in each of the seven hells, one for each spell she'd been granted to kill Freys and save her son. _For Robb_ _'s life? An easy bargain._

Several Freys crawled across the floor, moaning and begging for mercy, blood trails leading from holes in their armor to bloody spatters on the wall where they'd once stood. The northerners went to the butcher's work of cutting throats with mortal steel. Robb's weapon had apparently spent itself as well, and the brief respite in the chaos allowed Catelyn a moment to raise her arms in front of a flickering brazier and study the leather-and-steel gift of the gods cradled in her hands.

Words were etched in immaculate detail along the blade. "Colt 45," she read out loud. _What does that mean? Are there forty-four more of them?_ The weapon was heavy in her hands, much heavier than she'd realized in the moment, and the thing suddenly slipped free of her tired hands and nearly dropped to the floor. She caught it at knee-height and cradled the precious gift in both palms, staring at it in awe.

Motion drew her eyes up to her son. Robb was fiddling around in his coat, but his posture was unsteady and his hands moved awkwardly and without the certainty they had shown during the killing of Walder Frey. A little gray box lay at his feet, and Robb's knife had a second hollow where hers ended in a steel pommel. Catelyn's breathing grew ragged and she stepped in blood at her feet - her own blood, it seemed, as crossbow bolts were still lodged firmly through her insides. Her ankles were sticky and wet, and her clothes clung to her whole body from her knees to underneath her breasts. Panic gripped her as she realized Robb was nearly as injured, or perhaps worse. Had the Old Gods stepped in to slay their enemies, only to let Catelyn and Robb bleed to death on the battlefield? In her mind, she pleaded with them. _Take me. Let me have enough time to swear my oaths under a tree, and then take me. Let Robb live, please, I beg you. Let my son live and I will die under the tree as the First Men did in the old times. I will water your roots with my blood._

With the certainty of her death looming, Catelyn watched Robb pull another little steel rectangle out of his coat, just like the one on the floor. He slammed it into the hollow with one smooth motion. Not the first hollow, where the magic had originated, but the one on the leather grip. _What is this?_ A gift from the Old Gods, of course, any fool could see that. She had known for years that Ned's gods had chosen their son for greatness. But this? Sorcery, or some incredible construction like the Wall itself? The Children were once said to have used an unknown weapon to shatter the Arm of Dorne into a thousand islands, yet they had wielded nothing of the sort against the endless hordes of Andal invaders from across the Narrow Sea. The Old Gods and the Seven had met in centuries of bloody combat and Ned's gods had lost. Perhaps only now, thousands of years later, the Old Gods had chosen a new champion. The Children had not sufficed as extensions of their will. Was up to the descendants of the First Men to try again? Robb was an Andal and a First Man all in one, with Tully looks and Stark spirit, and when he'd called his banners against Walder Frey's new masters, the Riverlands had joined him just as eagerly as his own bannermen from the North.

She would bring them both to the Weirwood, Catelyn promised herself. Perhaps they would require her to die, perhaps not, it was of little importance. Oaths would be made and instructions received. There would be a price, of course. _There is always a price_.

Robb blinked at his weapon and nodded, apparently satisfied that it was primed for the next kill. He turned and walked around a corner on unsteady legs, following the blood trail from where the man in pink had slithered away at the moment the Old Gods had shown themselves. His face suddenly appeared in her memories. _Roose Bolton_. It had all happened so fast that she hadn't registered one enemy from the other, just a jumble of flayed men and twin castles. The Dreadfort had turned on Robb just as the Twins had turned on her. The Freys had a bridge that Robb would need for the war effort, but the Bolton's ancient castle was worthless. Once Winterfell was restored, she would pull the Dreadfort down stone by stone until nothing but the Godswood and the hot springs remained. She added that one to her long list of oaths and promised to reaffirm it in sight of the Old Gods, just as she had with all the rest.

Catelyn's frozen legs came to life as her son disappeared from view. A pair of strong hands were around her right bicep, ungloved, red as everything else, and attached to someone tall and dark, but there was nothing in the world that interested her besides her son and his quarry. Someone's voice buzzed in her ear but she ignored it and stepped forward instead, following the trail of gore across the room and into a narrow hallway.

She found the king standing over the Leech Lord's slumped figure. The Bolton forces had apparently fled through a back door and abandoned their dying lord, and from the sight of him, Roose was not long for the mortal world. His legs lay limp and useless, and he struggled to lift himself up by the arms. _He looks as Bran must have, when he woke_. Robb had described his brother's infirmities, and how the big stableboy had carried him around in a basket. _I_ _'m sorry you had to pay the price, my precious boy. There is always a price._

Roose stopped struggling as Robb and Catelyn approached, but he showed them no acknowledgment. Instead, he clawed at his face as if desperate to tear it off. Blood streamed down the fresh tears around his eyes, caked his nails, and dripped from his wrists. He had been alternating between the mad tearing and the futile attempts to stand, she realized. _The gods laugh at you, Roose Bolton._ He was utterly mad.

Most of what he muttered was gibberish, even if she concentrated on his white lips. "Why now…why now…" he croaked, then went back to babbling. Robb and Catelyn looked over him in silence as more Stark survivors crowded around behind them.

He blinked. "Why now, after thousands of years?" he said. Suddenly, his bloodshot eyes focused on the weapon in Catelyn's hand, then whipped over to the identical one in Robb's. "They were gone, thousands of years," he said. His chest heaved and blood poured out of his mouth. "There were none left, I won, all gone, how, I won…"

Robb lurched closer to Roose and pressed the hollow of the weapon up against the traitor's head. "Regard this."

The gods announced the battle's end.


	2. Arya I

ARYA

"Food for the feast, m'lord," the Hound mumbled.

 _He_ _'s terrible at this._ Sandor Clegane had insisted that he do the talking, but Arya knew she could have done a much better job. A pair of pushy soldiers wearing the sigil of the Twins had stopped them for questioning, a makeshift blockade halfway down the road that split the parade grounds in front of the southernmost Frey castle. Arya let the conversation fall away as she scanned the endless rows of tents, banners, sigils, horses, men, and refuse, a great city of revelers come to see her uncle Edmure marry one of their own. On the other side of the road flew the banner of the Direwolf, Robb's banner, _her_ banner, and below it countless more from the lower houses of the North.

One of the soldiers grunted in her direction and took her attention away from the army. He looked her over head-to-toe, lingering on the stolen Frey sigil pinned to her breast, then pushed her aside and lifted the canvas tarp covering the goods in the back of the wagon. He leaned forward and sniffed, then wrinkled his nose. "What's this?" he said, then threw the tarp back down. "Salt meats?"

The Hound faked a submissive bow. "M'lord said the feast-"

"This is a _king_ _'s_ wedding feast, you bloody peasant. Get this out of here!"

 _It_ _'s not a king who's getting married, stupid_. Arya nearly said it out loud, but held her tongue and chewed on her lip instead. Sandor stammered some response about lord so-and-so sending it on, and another lord ordering him to do it, and so on. Arya glanced back and forth between the two men, watching them hammer out the details of the lie. Sandor kept his head low and deferential like a good dog, but the story he'd chosen made no sense and, if their interrogator was to be believed, they were late anyway.

"Late?" Sandor said, raising his head in genuine surprise. "I thought-"

"It started early," the Frey man snapped.

The Hound may not have been a skilled liar, but he was a master of keeping calm under pressure. Arya figured that a low-level guard's obnoxious questions were nothing compared to what he'd seen on the battlefield. It was the Frey man who was nervous, actually, and for some strange reason he kept looking back at the castle, to the road over her shoulder, and around the various camps on either side, almost as if she and Sandor were the furthest concern from his mind.

The other soldier had stood back silent and forgotten. "Go on through," he suddenly said. Arya noticed him squeezing the grip of a sword at his waist and eying Sandor's scars, but his shoulders and legs were straight, not bent and ready to spring into action. _He_ _'s nervous, too, he just hides it better._

The first man gaped at him for a second, then waved his hand absently and mumbled some insult. Sandor whipped his mule into action, and as the wagon squelched its way out of the muddy tracks, Arya hopped up and sat on one of the tarp-covered barrels, a high enough perch to give her a much better view of the castle. The Twins loomed in the distance, two great towers separated by a long bridge over the least foamy portion of the Green Fork. Her brother would be in there, she knew, her mother too, and all their bannermen and servants. Would Sansa be with them? _No. Joffrey still has her._ That left only Jon, alone and freezing on the Wall with the criminals and exiles of the Seven Kingdoms. She would be with her family soon enough, all but Jon, and she promised herself and promised the Old Gods that when this day was over she'd make a trip up to Winterfell and Castle Black to see her brother again.

"Feast shouldn't be for some time…" Sandor grumbled to himself.

"Why?" Arya asked, looking at the activity in the camp. Men ran back and forth in the Frey camp, while the Stark, Umber, and Mormont men on the opposite side of the road lounged, drank, and chatted with one another.

"Should be outside," he continued. "When the whole army is here, he should have it outside. Big royal wedding, big feast."

"But it's my uncle's wedding," she pointed out.

"Doesn't matter," he said, letting his gaze linger on the assembling Frey men. "It's still- shit, this isn't fucking good, girl."

Assembling was exactly what they were doing. Suddenly, on the edge of her hearing, Arya could make out a deep sigh of stringed instruments, many of them coming together in a measure that she could swear she'd heard before, though it was impossible to place. It was a sad song, slow and thoughtful, but without words, who's to say what it meant? Apparently the Frey men thought it meant to strap on shields and draw swords.

"Get out!" The Hound bellowed. He halted the mule and leapt off the wagon in one motion, then scrambled for the broadsword stashed under the seat. Arya stood up on her barrel and looked over the heads of the men, who, so far, ignored both her and her hulking friend, a scarred shadow looming over her with sword in hand. The Frey army marched to the road, eyes focused like warriors ready for battle, but instead of converging on them in a flash of steel, they wrapped around their little wagon as a river split by a stone. They even ignored Sandor and his naked blade in search of other prey, and as they crossed, the whole army jogged on towards the Stark camp.

Somebody shouted a warning and the Frey men came back with a terrible battle cry, a great chorus so loud that it erased the music from the castle. The Hound reached back, snatched Arya around the waist, and in one fluid motion pulled her off the barrel, flung her over his shoulder,and slammed her chest onto his back with an _oomph_. Pain shot up through her body at the hip and suddenly the Hound was running. Each heavy step shoved his armored shoulder again and again into her gut, and the road scurried past under his feet and her eyes. Armored men washed around her and when she craned her head up to look at the road, she saw more Freys armed and moving, but no Starks. No Direwolves, no metal fists, no merman. Nobody on that side of the road was ready for battle, and most of them were too drunk and stupefied to move at all.

She leaned up as much as she could to free up her lungs, then took a deep breath. "What are they doing? Those are _our_ men just sitting around!"

"Dammit, girl," he growled. "Don't fucking draw attention to yourself. We're almost out!"

 _Out?_ "No!" she screamed, pounding on his back. "Let me down! My mother is in the castle, they're both in there, and they _need_ us!"

The screams had started already, some dim echoes from the Twins but mostly from the camps where the Frey men had come together to stalk and ambush their prey. Steel-on-steel rang in the air around them, and despite her best attempts to wriggle free, Arya was still pinned under the Hound's left hand.

"Go back!" she screamed, twisting her shoulders and pushing with her hands. She managed to flip around completely and kick her feet in the air, but when the Hound stopped to try and regain his grip, she was just bucking again. _Slippery as an eel_. Arya held her hands out towards the ground and kicked one last time. Suddenly she was falling, and after her foot slipped through the Hound's leather-and-mail gloves she slammed into the earth face-first, her hands sliding uselessly in the mud. The impact shook through her chest and body, and when she tried to stand, a burning sensation in her torso joined the daze of impact and she collapsed one more time, groaning softly and holding her head.

"You did that to yourself," the Hound said, nudging her with the toe of his boot. "Get up. Hurry the fuck up, you wolf bitch." He reached down and jostled her shoulder, then tapped her in the ribs with his boot.

Arya coughed over and over, and in one burning gasp, the blessed air returned to her lungs. Along with it came another sharp jet of pain where the Hound had kicked her and where she'd used her ribs to break the fall.

"Get the fuck _up!_ _"_ he shouted, yanking on her shoulder. She was on her feet in a split second, but her legs wobbled and she struggled to stay upright. "Now run!"

 _I will_.

Before Sandor's complaints could reach her ears, she spun on her heels and sprinted towards the Twins. The pain vanished from her chest and she could breathe normally again. The Frey and Stark men were fighting it out now, but the numbers were a sorry thing for the northerners, and though she wanted so badly to veer off and help them, her family was waiting inside. As she ran the music cut off abruptly, but the men fought on anyway, killing and dying on the Stark side of the camp.

 _Swift as a deer_. She was almost there, too, so close that the castle seemed near enough to touch. The Hound's bellow sounded somewhere in the distance and she thought she heard hooves. A sudden noise from the castle caught her attention and, without thinking, she broke her stride and planted her feet to slide to a complete stop.

 _Bang_.

She heard it much more clearly that time. The sound poured through the sky and back down at her like a distant, rolling thunder, something ancient and wrong that made her spine shiver and her feet stick as if lead weights were tied to her ankles. Whatever had caused that terrible sound _must_ be in the castle. _Robb_ _'s fighting it, I know he is. I have to help him._

More of the noises erupted from the castle, and a pack of spear-clenching gate guards at all looked at one another as if asking permission to run inside or run away. More _bangs_ thundered from behind the barred doors. _What is this? Some Frey trick?_ Her father's gods were never interested in human struggles, the Seven were always silent, and the Drowned God was ridiculous. Who was this lord of thunder, whose voice now called out to the sky? Why had he come to the Twins at the worst time, when she was so desperate to get inside and finally see her family again?

Arya almost broke into a run, but hoofbeats were getting closer and closer. _Only an idiot runs away from a horse._ She spun around, quick as a snake, and groped for a little dagger at her waist, but her hands fumbled with the leather grip and she looked up to see the Hound bearing down on her. He spurred his panicked, wild-eyed horse, and in the split second before he reached her, Arya noticed fresh wet blood dripping from his elbow down to his wrists, where he clutched a wide-bladed axe with the flat turned toward her face.

She ducked.

The weapon whooshed over her head, and Sandor yanked on the reins as the horse passed. The animal screamed in pain and panic, skidded in the mud, and its thrashing hooves sent muck flying in front of horse and man. With another tug Sandor wheeled his mount around but Arya was already moving, looking for a gap in the animal's legs and finding none. The horse lurched, spat, and kicked the air, and for a brief second the Hound's focus was away from her and on the mount, so she sprang around them and dashed past the hand clutching the reins. He reached down to grab at her anyway but he was much too slow and she was a wolf, quick and lithe and graceful, and she left the sounds of a very heavy man in armor crashing in the mud behind her.

She wanted to turn back and scream "Why?!" but she did not have the time. Men were still dying on the great field next to the road, tent after tent burst into flame, draft animals ran about burning and making all sorts of ghastly noise. A man desperately clung to his horse's mane as the two sprinted past, but his back was aflame and he didn't know it. Sandor's curses grew more and more distant, a dull throb compared to the cacophony around her.

The _bang_ sounds from the Twins started again, much more frequent this time, and the men at the gate pointed their spears at the wooden doors, as if they expected a terrible enemy to spring forth at any moment. _Not from that direction._ She drew her little dagger with one swift motion and, the moment she had the distance closed, leapt and plunged her dagger in the first Frey man's neck, right at the exposed point by the collar but below the lip of the helmet. He recoiled and screamed, blood spraying from the wound, but she was already on her feet and running again, bloody dagger clutched in her fist. Hands grasped for her and missed, a spear swung at her like a club but she sidestepped it and then she was finally at the gate.

A huge bar lay across the front, and despite the thickness of the wood she could hear the muffled and familiar sound of men shouting and dying inside. Swords clashed from all directions and another _bang_ shook the doors. The source was much closer now, so close that she nearly leapt out of her shoes in sudden fright. Men screamed behind her too, and their voices reminded her that she'd left a bunch of guards close by and she would have to kill them all to get this bar down.

When she turned, though, they were already busy.

The Hound had left his axe behind in a man's skull, the helmet split across the middle, and he was gripping the haft of a stolen spear with its point already impaled through a man's chest. Sandor growled and charged, pushing the flailing and wailing body backwards in the muck until his victim stumbled and fell over. Two more guards approached Sandor's back, but before they gathered the courage to attack he whirled, whipping a little sword from somewhere on his body and waving it menacingly back and forth.

A wolf howled.

She realized suddenly that she'd heard the snarls, too, but it had been lost in all the chaos around her. The two men recoiled as if stung by the sound. Even Sandor flinched, the dog though he was, but he recovered quickly, snatched his spear back out of the dead man's chest, and turned as if to charge the next one.

 _The door! They_ _'re on the other side of the door_! Arya had no way of knowing exactly where her family was in the huge castle but they would need to get through the door eventually, right? She spun around and grabbed the heavy oak bar with both hands and heaved with all her might. _Why is the bar on the outside?_ They had planned this, she knew, they had planned this early enough that they knew to lock people _inside_ the Twins instead of out. The men outside had known to go when the music played, but something had gone wrong and she knew it had to do with the incredible power of the explosions shaking the castle around her.

She heaved and heaved at the heavy timber, until finally she pushed it free and let one side fall to the ground with a thud and splash of mud, the other propped up in the irons. _Good enough_. The wolf howled again and her skin crawled. She nearly pulled the doors open but for a split second she was in a cage, howling again, while men fought outside and crossbows fired at a familiar man standing with his back to her and his shield raised high in desperation. Men circled him and he reached back for the cage's lock, but there were so many. Arya could smell the blood on him and on his enemies, but she could not reach out and-

She was herself again, not the wolf, and she knew exactly where she had to go.

The Hound was mopping up the last Frey guard when she ran past. He yelled at her incoherently but she ignored him and rounded the corner. Between the forest and the castle was an open ground leading to the river, and standing by the treeline was a mass of men wearing the Twins and another sigil she didn't recognize right away. _Quiet as a shadow_. She crept past them while the two groups argued amongst themselves, the Freys and the other people, both of whom were rattling sabers and offering insults. _The Flayed Man, that_ _'s what that sigil is. Bolton._

Blood welled in her mouth and she shook her head and tried to spit it out. _No, not_ my _mouth._ She spat again but only saliva came, then the sensation disappeared as quick as it had come. Men screamed and she snarled, both the girl and the wolf at once, and then she saw Grey Wind.

He had a crossbow bolt in him but the man who shot it was missing a throat, so it was a fair trade. Next to him was a young knight with many more bolts sticking through his armor, the same man she'd seen before, and she remembered him opening the cage and setting the wolf free, though she hadn't seen it herself. Or had she? Everything was a blur, everything except the dead and dying, the knight, the wolf, and the smell and taste of blood.

"Run!" the man shouted, pointing at her as she ran. "Get away from here, boy!"

When Arya slid to a halt he jogged the rest of the distance, wincing in pain and favoring his side where one of the quarrels sank deep. "Can't you see what's happening?!" He grabbed her arm and tried to yank her towards the river, then pointed at the forest with his shield. "Run alongside the river and go through the woods. Just go!" He groaned and wobbled on his legs, but Arya stood firm and grabbed his waist with both arms.

"Where's your sword?" she said, looking to his bloody hand as it gripped her shoulder. He was leaning on her now, not pushing her away, and his head sagged for just a moment before he shook off the sudden faintness and looked around. "It's, uh- what-"

He froze, wide-eyed, and stared over her shoulder. She felt hot breath on her neck and heard a low pant behind her ear. An animal paw gently patted her in the middle of the back and a long, thick tongue brushed her neck and licked up the blood on the man's hand.

"Grey Wind," she whispered.

The knight gaped at her. "You're one of ours, then? The King. We have to-"

She suddenly remembered the stupid Frey sigil attached to her clothes. A necessary disguise, the Hound had insisted, yet this Stark man had seen her in the chaos and didn't try to gut her. In fact, he'd wanted to help her escape. This man just saw a terrified and lost child and did not care who or what she followed. _He_ followed, she reminded herself, which only made it stranger. She looked like a boy with how she dressed and she'd kept her hair cut like Yoren had said, which meant she looked all the part of a Frey squire. _Don_ _'t men like him kill squires all the time?_

"Who are you?" she said, as gently as she could with the pounding of her heart.

He groaned. "Westerling. The King's brother. Come with me, please, help me, I can't stand."

His weight finally overcame her and he started to sink to his knees, but Grey Wind brushed past and the Westerling knight fell into the enormous direwolf instead. _What_ _'s a Westerling, anyway?_ The sigil on his tabard was some mountain that she didn't recognize. _How can he be the king_ _'s_ _brother_? Everyone said Bran and Rickon were dead, so that left only Jon, and it had been a long time since she'd seen him, but she would never forget Jon's smiling face when he gave her Needle. He reminded her so much of her father. She would never forget either of them, not matter what else happened, and this man did not look at all like a Stark.

"That fucking wolf," came a growl.

Arya looked up to see the Hound, crimson from head to toe and carrying both a shield and somebody's bloody sword. Yet terror crossed his eyes, terror like that night when Thoros of Myr had done his magic and brought the dawn to their little cave, a sword of fire in the hands of a one-eyed man. Grey Wind turned his head and regarded Sandor coolly, then bared his teeth briefly and bristled his fur. The Hound stood motionless, gaping, but the wolf decided he'd offered an adequate threat and relaxed. The Westerling knight lay across his neck, clutching his fur, breathing shallow and pained breaths, but Arya could see from his posture and the spasms of pain on his face that he was still conscious.

"We have to get to Robb," Arya shouted to the Hound. "Robb needs us. We have to go!"

Sandor only frowned. Grey Wind had locked his gaze again and the two dogs stared at one another for a few moments.

Whatever passed between them must have satisfied Sandor because his fighter's stance melted away. He blinked in confusion, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure nobody was sneaking up on him. Nobody was that stupid.

"I didn't sign up for _this_ ," he said.

"You'll be rewarded," the Westerling said, managing the words between spasming breaths. "I promise. Money, land. Help me stand."

The knight tried in vain to push himself to his feet, and Grey Wind waited patiently and let him use his back as a platform. The Hound finally walked over and threw the other man's arm over his shoulder, while Arya did the best she could to get under his chest and heave. Finally he was standing again, straight as an arrow though his face was pale, and he looked around for his lost sword.

"How many more are there?" the knight said.

"None," Sandor said, a satisfied grin touching the corner of his mouth.

"But there were so many!" Arya blurted out. "You killed all of them?"

"They fought each other for a bit, and I killed enough that the rest buggered off," he said.

Sure enough, Frey and Bolton corpses were laying in heaps near Grey Wind's cage, some impaled on each others' spears. A few survivors crawled and moaned, but Arya paid them no mind. The Westerling knight tried to walk a few more steps unaided but wobbled, so Sandor sighed and let the comparably tiny man lean on him.

"Ser Raynald," the Westerling knight groaned. "Thank you."

"Sandor Clegane."

"I know." He looked up at the Hound's scarred face. Even without the dogshead helmet, Sandor's look was known around all the Seven Kingdoms. _Lucky nobody tried to collect on his head._

"Well, Ser Raynald," the Hound said, mockery in his voice. "Don't let the Stark girl die, either. She's worth more than either of us to your king. I didn't come all this fucking way to let my ransom get stepped on."

"The Stark-" Ser Raynald said, frowning. He craned his neck around and back down at Arya. She bit her lip and looked away, hiding her face as best she could.

Sandor barked a short, sarcastic laugh. "Nevermind. Just don't let her die. The wolf will watch over her, I think. The bloody animals love them."

A sudden painful memory of Nymeria flashed through Arya's mind. She and Jory had driven her off with rocks on that day at the river, knowing someone like the Hound would run her through if they had the chance. That had happened to Mycah instead. If only she'd made _him_ run too, then he'd be alive.

She hated the Hound, once, yet he had protected her and brought her to her family when everyone else had just lied and tried to use her for their own purposes. Beric, Thoros, even Harwin, all of them had something on their minds, some trade, like she was Sansa or one of those other girls who just wanted to be given to some high lord for lands and men. Like Robb and the Frey wife he was supposed to marry, or so she heard. Hadn't he married a Frey? What happened with that? Sandor didn't care about any of her family's silly politics, though. He wanted gold and that meant bringing her here. He killed Mycah because Joffrey made him, that's all, but Joffrey made Meryn Trant kill Syrio and he made Ilyn Payne kill her father, and she would not forgive either of them, not ever. How could she forgive the Hound?

 _I_ _'ll kill him later_.

The two men and two wolves passed the corpses and near-corpses, while in the distance smoke poured into the sky from a hundred fires. Blurred figures screamed and died behind the columns of smoke, and the battle stretched so far that Arya couldn't see where it ended and the forest began. When their little party approached the corner, shouts and pounding told her that someone - a lot of someones - were already at the gate.

"Hold it shut!" a man yelled, and more voices joined him in wordless challenge. "Hold it! Get a horse! Get a horse for the king!"

Ser Raynald and Sandor looked at one another and picked up the pace. Arya grew tired of waiting and burst into a sprint again, running ahead of them and with Grey Wind at her heels. This time, Sandor didn't even bother to yell at her to stop. The two of them, wolf and wolf girl, rounded the corner and saw a dozen wounded and bloody men bracing themselves against the great wooden gates at the front of the castle.

And she saw her mother.

"The bar!" Catelyn shouted, and a couple of the door-bracing men reached down to grab it. Grey Wind leapt past Arya, a flash of fur and blood as his enormous figure bounded with incredible speed towards the bedraggled men and the door that separated them from death. Arya ran towards Catelyn, and as she closed the gap between them, she saw that one of the men who reached for the bar was younger than the rest and dressed in a lord's finery. _Not a lord_ _'s. A king's._

Robb was there, and he was alive. More hands reached down, and with their help her brother and her mother grabbed the bar and lifted it high. The door's defenders parted for a moment to give them room but another great impact shook the door and it burst open for a second, sending the exhausted men stumbling backwards and falling on their rears. Yet Grey Wind was with them now, and the great beast stood in the open portal facing down whatever hoped to come through.

It was Freys. Dozens of them, all armored for war and waving steel around, plus one lordly type who led from the front. He wore expensive and intricate gold-trimmed armor with the Frey colors, left his fat and balding head uncovered, and gripped a clean sword in his hand, and though he stepped through the doorway with the grim expression of a butcher, Grey Wind's growl and snarling visage sent him scrambling backwards into his men with terror written across his features.

Catelyn and Robb both let the bar fall to the earth, and her brother reached to his hip for a sword that wasn't there. Catelyn grabbed him with both hands and pushed him backwards, away from the enemy, yet there were enemies in all directions except the river and the sky. Arya knew if they took the road they were dead, if they went anywhere but the castle they were dead. Bolton and Frey betrayers were everywhere and there were just so few of her people that not even the Hound could save them. Her pack was so small and it was about to be hunted down and slaughtered, like a hounds on the trail of a coyote.

"Mother!" she screamed. "Robb! We have to go inside!"

The Frey men did not react to her, nor did the Stark men who used Grey Wind's distraction to find their feet and their swords, but Robb and Catelyn both turned at the sound of her voice and gaped at her, astonished. "Inside!" she repeated, pointing to the Freys. "It's not safe out here! Hurry!"

Ser Raynald and the Hound staggered around the corner. Arya pointed at them and then the Freys. "He'll kill them all, I promise. He can kill a hundred if he needs to!"

"Arya…" Catelyn started, wide-eyed, but no other words came.

Robb reached under his cloak with one hand and pointed to the open door with the other. "I'll make a path! Get inside!"

The Freys gathered their valor and squared their shoulders, almost as if the idiots thought it wise to attack. A dozen Stark survivors flanked Grey Wind and advanced, but the line had moved not even a full step before the Frey's courage fled them once again. They looked to their commander for inspiration, but fear had so twisted his face that he stumbled and fell straight on his ass in front of the Direwolf's massive frame. Incredibly, the men around him could not find the fortitude to help their commander up, the big ugly cowards, and Grey Wind knew exactly what to do.

He leapt forward and ripped into the Frey commander's throat.

The Stark men charged next, and after a brief pause of sheer terror, the remaining Freys scattered into the wind. The Hound let Robb take Ser Raynald, and though they didn't exchange any words, a quick look passed between them that Arya saw as a warrior's understanding. Robb must have guessed that the Hound had just saved his long-lost sister, thought dead for years, and Arya knew he would be exactly right.

"The Old Gods," Catelyn's voice came to her, shaky and stammering. "They brought you to me." She appeared between Arya and the castle with red palms raised. Arya recoiled in horror, not because of the blood all over her mother's body from chest to hands to feet, but because of the crossbow bolt sticking out of her side and second jutting at a high angle from her back.

"Mother," she said. "The Hound saved me and brought me here. I said you'd give him money, and maybe lands somewhere up north, so he brought me here." She blinked. "Mother?"

"Arya," Catelyn repeated, her eyes dreamy and her face slack. "The gods have breathed life into your body and brought you back to me. I am not worthy."

Her mother collapsed.

Arya gasped and ran to her, but Catelyn was staring up at the sky, smiling and blinking with vacant eyes. Blood flowed sluggishly from her many wounds, and her hand grasped at the air between them. Arya grabbed her mother's wet and sticky hand and held it to her face. Blood mixed with tears as Arya sobbed. "Don't die," Arya whimpered, only a pup again. _She_ _'s dying. She's dead._ "Don't die…"

"Arya!"

Robb's voice snapped her to attention. He and Ser Raynald - his brother, Arya reminded herself - held each other up in the open doorway, and with all the other fighters inside, the family was alone. Her mother, her brother, and her new brother, if he told the truth. She still didn't understand what he meant, but she believed him. Everyone but Jon and Sansa were here, and they were all hurt. _That_ _'s what maesters are for._

"Come inside!" Robb shouted.

"But mother…" Arya moaned.

"She's dead! We have to get in _now_!"

As if to drive the point home, shouts drew her eyes back over her shoulder, where blood-spattered Freys gathered on the road, not far from the overturned cart that had brought her to this place. More streamed from the ruins of the Stark camp, their work probably finished, and the leaders were pointing spears right at Arya's family and waving the rest on. She had not minutes, but seconds, to find a way to get her mother's limp body inside so the maesters could save her. In a split-second she thought out a prayer to the old gods for strength, so much strength that she could lift a limp adult in her scrawny arms and dash inside as if she were carrying naught but feathers. She prayed and prayed for the strength, tugged at her mother's arm, dug her heels in the mud and pulled and pulled and pulled.

Sandor Clegane appeared in front of her.

Before Arya could blink he had her mother in his arms and was heading for the castle. Arya's legs froze for too long, much too long, and only the danger of men coming down the road spurred her into action. Mud squelched as she bounded away from the enemy, around the man who would save her family, and ran for the door.

"The bar!" Robb shouted, as she skidded to a halt. He pointed to the bar laying on the ground, but he wasn't looking at her. "Ser Knight, get the bar!"

"Not a fucking knight," the Hound groaned, dumping Catelyn heavily inside.

Robb leaned down to cup her face. "Mother…"

"Robb," came a weak voice.

Several able Stark men pushed past the family and fumbled with the doors, but Arya could only watch her mother's face. She smiled up at Robb, then reached out and grabbed Arya's hand again. Despite the weakness in her body, she gave Arya's hand a firm squeeze, as if they were back in Winterfell, her father was alive, and all was well again.

"It'll bar from the inside," someone said.

The bar set into the irons with a clank. "Fucking _right_!" Sandor bellowed.

"More coming!" Ser Raynald said, moaning. "I need a weapon, a sword, something…"

Arya glanced over her shoulder at the closed and barred door, and was grateful that it hid the horror outside. Only Grey Wind's latest victim lay nearby as a reminder of what she'd narrowly escaped, but the wolf himself had moved on down the hallway to hunt some other enemy.

"I need to stay with my pack," Arya said, "the ones that aren't hurt yet. We have more Freys to kill."

Catelyn blinked at her in confusion and shook her head weakly. Before she could say anything, Robb shushed her. Sandor and several more men stepped around with a clatter and Arya stood, grabbed the dagger from her waist again, and wiped the fresh blood on her thigh.

"I'll be back," she whispered. "Don't die before I get back."

Arya did not wait for an answer from either of them. More Freys were coming, the Hound and all the rest were going to meet them, and she wasn't about to let them do all the work. She lifted the little red-stained dagger one more time, pointed down the hallway and cried,

" _Winterfell!_ "

And she dashed towards them.


	3. Tyrion I

TYRION

Tyrion sat quietly and drummed his fingers on the ornate small council table, women and wine passing through his thoughts, and all the noisy people around him vanished into a low rumble. His nose itched, so he scratched it, then cleared his throat and yawned. Somebody's hand flew in front of his face but he ignored it, leaned back in his chair, stretched, and twisted his torso until he felt, the deep, satisfying pops at the base of his spine. _I_ _'ve been working too much._

"It was Walder Frey!" Cersei screamed, swinging a wild open palm at the air in front of her. The back of her hand collided with a half-empty wine glass and splattered Dornish red all over Tyrion's neck and mouth. The spice hit his senses all at once and made him sputter and hack. _Right, other people are here._ He wiped the mess away from his hideous scar and glanced down at the remains of the glass, now just shards scattered across stone in the corner of the room. _If only I could be so forgotten._

Their father was glaring at her and saying something with menace in his eyes, but Tyrion wasn't listening. The wine was already dripping down his stomach and back at the same time. _This is going to stain._ He tried to mop up the red before it could soak his collar, but when his efforts proved vain, he sighed and leaned back in his seat to stare at the ceiling once again.

"No he won't!" Joffrey spat. "Will you, uncle?"

Suddenly, eyes were on him. Tyrion sat up straight and looked around the room. Tywin, Cersei, even quiet Kevan looked to him for a response to some unknown question, while Joffrey glanced rapidly back and forth between his grandfather and Tyrion. The boy king's hands seemed to beg the air, like he was waiting for someone to please agree with him.

Tyrion gulped. "Uh-"

"She's a traitor, like her traitor brother and traitor father! I've always said, haven't I mother?"

Cersei nodded slowly and placed one gentle hand on Joffrey's shoulder. "Of course she is. Nobody here denies that Sansa Stark is guilty of treason."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at Cersei. "I deny it. What in seven hells are you talking about?"

"She is your family now, by marriage," Tywin said to Cersei, gritting his teeth as if the words tested the absolute limit of his patience. "You'll be warned to remember that truth. Sansa _Lannister_ will still be a lady of status and claim once the war is over and the realm moves forward."

Joffrey slammed one impotent fist on the table, sending unused utensils leaping into the air. Plates rattled and wine glasses shook, but aside from a few stray drops, nothing of value was lost. Tyrion quickly snatched up his own cup in advance of another one of his nephew's savage strikes. When the King didn't get the reaction he wanted, he slammed the little fist again, this time just a bit harder. Smoke seethed from out his ears, or nearly so, and his skin turned brighter than Tyrion's wine-soaked collar. Joffrey huffed and puffed while Cersei sighed and everyone waited for the tantrum to pass.

"As I was saying earlier," Tywin continued, once the hot air had escaped his grandson, "Tyrion's wife was in no position to orchestrate the betrayal at the Twins, if that was indeed what happened."

"Of _course_ it was a betrayal," Cersei snapped, leaving Tyrion ignored once again. "How else do you explain it? They tell us the wolf came loose, they tell us Robb Stark slew a hundred men single-handedly. Yes, it's part the ravings of a madman and, yes, it's partly the excuses of the incompetent, but the truth is treason, and all of you know it, I know it, even Tyrion knows it!"

The ravens had come within the hour, but details were maddeningly few, restricted to whatever words could fit around a talon, and each new letter contradicted the one before it. Edwyn Frey claimed his family was torn asunder by some kind of wolf god and mad child, while a Bolton bannermen told a bizarre tale of sorcery in the hall of the Twins. Shapeshifting, thunder from a cloudless sky, and the deserter Sandor Clegane filled out the list, but none of these tales made the first lick of sense to anyone half as sober as Tyrion.

Cersei _was_ right about the treason, just not the identities of betrayer and betrayed. It was Tywin's doing, actually, and a bit of subterfuge about which Tyrion had been utterly ignorant. _You could have warned me that we tried to murder my wife_ _'s family._ One major power in the Riverlands and one major power in the North had signed on for his little conspiracy, a plan that hoped to end the rebel's pretensions with a bit of light oath breaking and godless murder. The plan had gone awry, this much was clear, and though an accurate picture was impossible to draw, Tyrion thought it unlikely that Robb Stark had fallen. They'd have heard _that_ news already. Edmure Tully had announced his decision to take possession of the Twins and all its dependencies, so at least one of the principal targets had escaped. _But not the late Walder Frey._

"The dire wolf may simply have been let loose by a Stark saboteur," Kevan said quietly.

For just a moment, there was silence. "And?" Cersei finally said.

"And?" Joffrey parroted her, adding an exaggerated shrug and crossing his arms.

"Ser Edwyn claims the monster slew a hundred of his men," Kevan said. "He says the same about the rebel king's personage, though, so perhaps he is confused about which wolf is which. In either case, we can agree this is an exaggeration to cover his own failure, and the Bolton version is too fanciful to be believed. We must assume that Stark simply took precautions, detected the conspiracy, and overwhelmed his would-be assassins. The animal is largely inconsequential. What matters is the trick has failed and Stark now controls the Twins."

"He still doesn't have Winterfell," Joffrey said, leaning forward in his oversized chair and staring at Tywin for some reason. "Right? So what if he has a stupid tower on a river?"

"It's two towers on a river," Tyrion said.

Joffrey glared at him. "What did you say to me?"

"That's why they call it the Twins."

Joffrey curled his mouth into a snarl, then blanched, suddenly afraid. _What is going through that boy_ _'s mind_? "Sansa will not be blamed at any rate," Tyrion continued, brushing away the idea with a wine-stained hand. "I won't allow it."

He immediately regretted the words. His father actually _growled_ from the head of the table, while Joffrey and Cersei sputtered as one incoherent unit. Kevan stood and raised both hands for calm.

"I am the _king_!" Joffrey finally shouted. "You will _allow_ what I tell you to allow, you crippled, deformed little monster!"

"That's _enough_!" Tywin roared.

The Hand of the King rose as Kevan had, and he slammed his fist as Joffrey had, but both motions had considerably more effect when they came from the Great Lion himself. Wine spilled from every glass except Tyrion's, and silverware clattered on the floor. Joffrey shrank back in his seat, and Cersei leaned over to comfort him.

"The Stark girl will not be executed for the crime of her brother's failure to be murdered," Tywin said, glaring at Joffrey the whole way. He turned to Tyrion. "Bring your wife the news and judge her reaction. Find out if she knows anything."

"She won't," Tyrion said reflexively.

"She may," Cersei said.

"Then the Freys will be punished!" Joffrey said, sitting up and pushing his mother away. "For their failure! The Boltons, too. Doesn't he have a son?"

"Father and sons are all dead," Tywin said. He sat down slowly and adjusted his cloak and tunic. "One son dead of an illness years ago, and a bastard hunted and killed in the North for some sort of unnatural crime. Lord Roose died at the Twins, so say his bannermen, and all the better for us. No living person outside this very room knows that any Lannister was ever involved."

"Except the Freys," Cersei said. "What role did Ser Edwyn have in the wedding? He is the grandson, is he not?"

"Great grandson," Tywin explained. "His father was first among the wolf's victims, or so the letter says. His grandfather died in the campaign. I do not know what happened to the younger son, Lothar Frey, but he was my sole contact and kept the secret between him and Lord Walder. If he lives, I will take my answers from him."

"We should strike now, while we have the opportunity," Kevan said.

Tywin nodded and pretended as if Kevan had really suggested the idea. "I agree. We will each lead armies north to take advantage of the disarray. We will attack from more than one side, and if the Stark remainders are unable or unwilling to meet us in the field, then we'll simply resume warmaking in the Riverlands until there are no fields left to burn."

Tyrion and Cersei looked to one another instantly. Her eyes narrowed to daggers and bored into the hole where his nose used to be. _She wants to rule while daddy is away._

"In addition," Tywin continued, "there are the fortresses to consider. I will lay siege to the Twins and scatter the remaining northmen on the south bank of the Green Fork. Ser Kevan will mop up the remaining Riverlanders and liberate the Crag of its Stark garrison. Tyrion," he added casually, as if an afterthought, "you will resume your familiar duties as Hand of the King until I return. See to the reconstruction of the mud gate, and review my letters on-"

"Him!" Cersei shrieked. "You leave us in _his_ hands?"

Tywin sighed as if he were the most set-upon man in all the Seven Kingdoms. "What, would _you_ do the work, woman? Rule a kingdom of men?"

"I'm a better fit than any man," she said. "And any man is a better fit than _him._ "

"Cersei-" Kevan started.

"Don't fucking lecture me, uncle," she hissed. "I am a lion of Lannister, and I will not-"

"You will do _exactly_ as I command," Tywin said. He remained cool and calm, an artifact of a lifetime of repeating this exact same argument with his headstrong daughter. "See to your son. He could use a bit of mothering."

"I don't need him to rule for me," Joffrey whined. "I am a man now. I won the battle of the Blackwater. The city is mine, not his, and I won't let you give it to him."

 _That_ got a reaction out of Lord Tywin. The Lannister patriarch pursed his lips and drew his eyes together in a savage, hateful glare. _Time to melt into the furniture._ Tyrion assumed Joffrey would do the same, but incredibly, he leaned forward instead, met his grandfather's gaze, and spoke.

"You aren't the king," the boy said. "You aren't now, and you weren't when Aerys was king, either."

The ancient name sent a shockwave through the room. Tyrion's jaw dropped and Tywin physically recoiled. "What did you say-"

"You were too afraid to take the throne then," Joffrey went on, "and you're too afraid now. That's _why_ I am the king. Because ever since my father died I'm the only one here who isn't too cowardly to do the job."

"Cowardly." Tywin said, his voice flat. "You must be a brave man to say that."

"That's what I just said!" Joffrey spat.

"Who _is_ the craven, then?" Tywin went on, letting the tiniest hint of a wry grin touch the edge of his lips. _A scarier sight than any murderous Kingsguard._ Kevan slid back in his seat as if trying to fade into the floor. Cersei only stared at him in shock. _Aren_ _'t you going to help your idiot son?_

Joffrey stammered something incomprehensible and all the bravado drained from his face. He looked to his mother for support, but she was frozen stiff. He gulped. "I didn't say- uh…"

The grin, if it ever lived, died on Tywin's lips. "You said you were no craven, is that right?" he said. "But, you are the only one who can make that boast, if I am understanding you correctly. So, might you list the names of those you call craven? Specifically, who here is not up to your lofty standards?"

Tyrion thought about interjecting, but why bother? He was enjoying the show, and the only other subject on the docket was the mess at the Twins. He would rather not think about that. _I have a city to run, whether Cersei wants it or not_. Would she be a threat to Shae? To Sansa? Would she strike at him out of jealousy? _I have to see to my own, first._

"I said you aren't the king," Joffrey said, his teeth chattering. If the chair were bigger, he might have hid underneath it. "You aren't the king, because-"

"Because I'm too cowardly to seize the Iron Throne?"

Just when Tyrion thought that Joffrey might dig his way out of his predicament, he jumped right back in and buried himself in shit. "People always say things about the Mad King and your wife," the child king blurted out. "You were afraid of Aerys so you let him do whatever he wanted to her while you pretended to rule the realm. Then he got tired of her and threw you out, so you went back to Casterly Rock and sulked. You sulked because you were afraid to take the Iron Throne. Well, I won't let any false king have _my_ wife, and I won't let any Targaryen have _my_ throne."

When Joffrey's nonsensical little speech was through, silence settled on the Small Council chamber once more. Tyrion mouthed a thanks to the Crone for the wisdom of silence. Cersei unconsciously shifted away from her son, while Ser Kevan was little more than a floor ornament with a pulse. Tyrion's heart fluttered in his chest while everyone waited for the hammer to drop.

"Take the boy back to his chambers," Tywin ordered nobody in particular. "And give him the lash."

Joffrey's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. Cersei sat up suddenly and shifted between the King and his grandfather.

"I'll get the whipping boy," she said all at once, then practically leapt out of her chair.

"I didn't say to get the whipping boy," Tywin said. "I said, give him the lash. I don't care who does it, as long as I see him striped before I sit a horse. Do you understand?"

"Striking a king is treason!" Joffrey shouted.

"Then send a headsman for whomever holds the whip," Tywin said, shrugging, as if it were an irrelevant detail. "But you'll be in tears for what you've just done. Blood and tears, I'll see to it, and then I will save your wretched kingdom from its enemies while you weep and bury your head in your mother's bosom."

The Lord of Lannister stood and Ser Kevan mirrored him obediently. Tywin took a second to adjust his clothing, as if signaling that he felt entirely unthreatened by the hostile force in the room, but his brother marched off immediately. Kevan moved so quickly that he'd opened the council doors and vanished into the hallway before Tywin could even step away from the table. Joffrey reattached his jaw to his face, then twisted in his seat and pointed to the four silent Kingsguard behind him.

"Arrest that man!" Joffrey shouted.

 _Well, this got a little_ too _interesting._ Tyrion stood up and held one palm towards his father and the other towards the advancing Meryn Trant. "Now, let's not-"

"You will do absolutely no such thing," Tywin barked, his voice iron and his eyes the center of the sun. "You will escort the boy and his mother to their quarters."

"You obey _me_ ," Joffrey growled, standing up in his seat like a child half his size. He jabbed a finger at Tywin while Cersei tugged at the end of his shirt. "You don't obey _him_! I demand you arrest him for treason!"

"Joff-" Cersei started.

The boy reached down and backhanded her across the face.

No matter how much Tyrion might have hated his sister, and no matter how satisfying it may be to see her get her comeuppance, Tyrion did not enjoy the sight of a woman slapped by anyone, not even a boy king with less upper body strength than Ned Stark's missing daughter. _I have to do something._ Plans upon plans rattled through his wine-addled mind, but his body remained fused with his seat, and his throat seemed drier and drier by the second.

"Tywin Lannister is guilty of treason," Joffrey shouted, his voice cracking, making it more of an angry squeak for all the world contained in the Small Council chambers to hear. "I decree it!"

Tyrion's father stepped away from the table as if to leave, but hesitated. For the briefest moment, perhaps the only moment Tyrion or any other living person had ever witnessed, the slightest bit of doubt and fear flashed across Lord Tywin's face. Who _would_ the men with the swords obey? _Varys is tittering now._ Ser Meryn stepped between Joffrey and Tywin, frozen, and with the knight's back turned, Tyrion had no idea what he was thinking or planning. Ser Boros stood by his shoulder, while Ser Balon moved to the door and Ser Osmund stood by the king. _He_ _'s closer to Cersei, actually._

"Lord Tywin," Ser Meryn started, his voice muffled by the shroud of steel around his head.

"You were just taking the king to his bedroom," Tywin said.

"Come along, Joff," Cersei said. She reached for his hand but he slapped it away.

Joffrey jumped out of his chair and landed awkwardly on the floor, gripping the back for balance. He glared at Tywin, then turned to Ser Osmund. The other two knights near Tywin looked at one another, then back at the King.

"Ser Osmund," Joffrey said, gulping. "You have your orders."

 _The boy finds his spine at the absolute worst time in his entire life._ Tyrion wondered what a strong Joffrey would be like and dismissed the idea as self contradictory. He was beset by sudden spasms of initiative, that was true, but so far every time he'd done something of his own accord, the wrong heads had rolled and the king's own position had been worse off for it. Whose head it would be this time, and what spike it would adorn? _I bet it_ _'ll be missing a nose._ With both Tywin and Kevan soon to leave the city, who would protect him? Cersei?

"Gentlemen," Tyrion said, loud enough to be heard over the shifting plates and chainmail of the Kingsguard. "And ladies, of course. We are all emotional from the terrible news at the Twins. Now is not the time-"

"Arrest him too!" Joffrey shouted, gesturing wildly at his uncle.

 _That went well_. Tyrion took a deep breath and tried again. "A man has two Hands and you'd cut them both off at once?" he said, forcing a grin. "Ser Meryn, you wouldn't obey such a command, would you? You are meant to protect him, not hurt him."

"I don't need protection!" Joffrey retorted.

"You heard it from the man himself," Tyrion said. "The Kingsguard have been disbanded. Off you go!"

Tywin did not flinch, nor betray any sign he'd heard Tyrion's words. He only stared down Ser Meryn. The knight took a cautious step back, but his hand moved slowly to the hilt of his sword.

"Let's not all be foolish," Tyrion continued. "Think of your Lord Commander. He wouldn't approve of a good lopping, would he?"

"I didn't say to cut off his _hand_ ," Joffrey said, twisting his face in confusion. _Somebody didn_ _'t understand the metaphor._

"Your Lord Commander would tell you to let everyone cool off before heads and hands start rolling all over the city." Tyrion mimed taking a casual sip from his long empty cup, as if the situation were not balancing on a razor's edge. "Ser Meryn, let's all sit down and have a drink."

The doors to the council chambers swung open and Kevan Lannister strolled through, right past the startled Ser Balon. Twenty men in red cloaks were behind him. _The cavalry have arrived._

"Ser Meryn," he said. "The Hand and I have urgent business to attend to. Please stand aside."

A wise man would stand down against such odds, but then again a wise man would not wind up in this situation to begin with. Joffrey was neither wise nor a man. "Usurpers!"

Nearly every word Joffrey had said all day was a shout, and that one word was no exception. Ser Kevan yelled at the Kingsguard to stand down and Joffrey yelled at them to stand up. _If I hear a sword clear a sheath, I_ _'m jumping out the window_. Only there were no windows in the small council chamber, and Tyrion was stuck between two groups of men in head-to-toe steel, while his own swords were off gallivanting with whores or shooting dice in Flea Bottom. Not that Bronn could do much against so many men, but it would at least make Tyrion feel better to have one friend around to die with him.

 _Words, then. Still not out of words._ "The King is not of legal age," Tyrion said. "But the Hand is. You have two Hands and a Queen Regent saying one thing, and a boy king saying another. Whose command do you follow?"

Joffrey snarled and spat at him next, but could come up with nothing coherent. _I_ _'m going to have to flee the city if I keep this up._ Cersei didn't react, or else she hid it well enough that Tyrion couldn't read her. Instead, she just put her arm around her quivering son and drew him close, cooing in his ear and stroking his neck.

The motion reminded Tyrion of Robert Arryn and the shaking fits at his mother's breast. Joffrey could speak in more complete sentences than the falcon lord, but Cersei's coddling had left him just as petulant and powerless. In a few years, he would be a true terror. How long before Ser Meryn, or whoever replaces him, would carry out the order without question? How many more times would Tyrion save the city before old grudges caught up with him? Would this creature be the one to finally lay the indomitable Tywin Lannister low?

The standoff finally ceased when Ser Meryn turned and looked at the minor army of Lannister men, all dressed for battle and touching hilts. Ser Kevan stood silent and menacing with all that muscle and steel waiting for his command. Aside from Cersei's motherly noises, the council chamber was utterly silent, but Ser Meryn broke that silence by clearing his throat and standing aside.

"We have wasted enough time with this mummery," Tywin said, his voice deep and confident as always. "Take him away. My brother and I have business to attend to."

The tension evaporated instantly and all the soldiers in the room relaxed, whether their cloaks were white or red. Even Joffrey's unaccountable daring had run its course, and he let his mother usher him out of the room like a cat carrying her kitten by the neck. When noone else was looking, Tywin gave Tyrion a short, hesitant nod. _Was that approval?_ Tyrion's heart soared, but he immediately flushed with shame. _What am I, a whipped dog?_

"Tyrion," Tywin said, after the king was gone. The Lannister men and the Kingsguard all filed out behind him, leaving Tyrion alone in the room with his father and uncle. "Find out what you can from any Tully bannerman in the Riverlands who will answer. Get a message to the Crag, as well. Ask Spicer for any information she has."

 _Spicer? She?_ Tyrion started to open his mouth to ask, but Tywin raised a palm to silence him. "My contact among the Westerlings. Sign the letters in my name. No need to use a code of any sort. Just direct your letter to Spicer and her maester will do the rest."

Tyrion nodded and gulped. The Westerlings had married into upjumped spice merchants and produced a wolf queen. _We have a spy in Robb Stark_ _'s bed, it appears._ "I thought the conspiracy was down to merely one family."

"Certain secrets are best kept restricted to only the worthiest of men."

 _Don_ _'t read too much into that, Tyrion._ The words appeared as flattery, but he detected a poorly-concealed loathing behind the tone of his father's voice. _Just a tactic. Everything is just a tactic._ Tyrion smiled briefly and pretended he took the false compliment as truth. "I will ask Sansa too, as you said, and by the time you've returned, Kings Landing will be strong as Storm's End."

"Needless exaggeration doesn't become you," Tywin said, stepping away from the table. "Nor does false modesty. Say exactly what you've done and plan to do, nothing more, nothing less."

He left, and Kevan followed.

"What else do lions have but pride?" Tyrion muttered to an empty room.


	4. Davos I

DAVOS

In the heart of Dragonstone, Davos slept. He'd claimed some sparse quarters within the Stone Drum many years ago, long before the start of the war, and though he missed his dear Marya most of all, he could not help but be grateful to get away from the unfamiliar soft bed and fancy furnishings that a castle and knighthood had brought him. He slept much better when he was close to the sea.

Davos had insisted on filling his small room with hard trappings, an always-open window let the smell of salt touch his nose, and he'd left a standing order for the help not to touch anything without his specific instructions. He dreamt that the ground rocked between the waves. He dreamt of seeing the Stag banner and dropping sail, barking an order for absolute silence in the middle of the great black sea. Fire illuminated the Stag as the ship passed, a terrible column of flame that licked at the feet of a bound prisoner, just a girl, young and terrified and screaming in agony, surrounded by horned figures with cloven hooves that danced and sang. One of them was dressed all in red. The nightfire grew and grew until the roar blotted out the chanting and the screaming both, and all he could do was lay low and wait for the demons to pass.

Sudden he clutched a short metal spear, heavier than it looked, and his hands - whole and strong again - were wrapped around a pair of leather grips. Sorcery called to him, told him the ship need not pass unscathed, whispered in his ear that the girl could be saved and the revelers slain. All he needed to do was ask. _The roots grow deep, deep enough to touch the bottom of the sea._

A sudden knock jolted him awake. "Enter," he barked, his voice hoarse and dry.

The intruder was a servant bearing the fiery heart upon his breast. Davos exchanged half-remembered words, then rubbed at his eyes with his good hand and sat up. The chill of the sea drifted through the open window, and he took a few moments to stare out at the dark sky. _Pre-dawn._

He couldn't dawdle. The King requested his presence in the Chamber of the Painted Table, and he requested it immediately. The servant had little in the way of details to offer him, aside from a raven-sized letter and a look of grim determination on his liege lord's face. _So all is normal._

Davos stumbled half-dressed through the dimly-lit halls of the Stone Drum, his passage a blur of stone and blank walls, until a beacon of light drew him towards a closed wooden door. He fumbled with the latch, nudged it open, and recoiled against a blaze of braziers inside, bright as day and blinding to his constricted pupils. Light danced across the ceiling and Davos shielded his face with his maimed hand, blinking away tears.

Stannis was already in the Chamber. The king grunted and stared out the window, where smoke blew out and over the sea, but before Davos could offer a greeting, a door on the far side of the room swung open. Through it strode The Red Woman.

"You called for me, my king?" Melisandre purred.

"Lord Hand," the King said, ignoring her. He gave nothing away in his posture or expression, only staring out the window in silence, before he finally turned and stooped over the table. Stannis flexed his jaw, then looked back and forth between pieces carved into the image of stags, wolves, lions, and trout. No part of the tableau had moved since nightfall.

"Your grace," Davos said. His voice croaked from lack of water and he coughed until it blew clear. "Your grace," he repeated in a stronger voice.

"Sorry to wake you," Stannis said quietly.

 _That_ got his attention. The king was as thoughtful a man as any and willing to apologize when he was in the wrong, but a summons at night was hardly a cause for fault.

"I was told it is urgent," Davos said.

Stannis swept a hand across the midst of the Seven Kingdoms, lingering on nothing in particular. "Do you see what piece is missing from the board?"

Davos turned first to Melisandre, who only smirked at him in silence. _What game is he playing?_ Davos looked one more time and saw the usual players, from the Greyjoys in the north to the Martells in the south. All the highlords and some of the stronger bannermen were represented and placed at odds with one another, though a handful of powers like the Arryns remained stubbornly neutral and in their own territory. The Riverlands was particularly busy, with many minor lords crowded around the bigger Stark and Tully pieces. Besides wolf and trout, the Northerners bore such imagery as a gloved fist and a silver eagle, three buckets, a merman, and countless varieties of trees and axes. All of those armies had combined to attend the Frey wedding, which should be-

"The Twins," Davos blurted out, puffing up his chest as he said it. "You've removed the Freys from the board."

Stannis nodded grimly and slid Davos a small, furled letter. He swallowed and winced at the dryness in his throat, but there were no liquid comforts at hand. He unwrapped the little parchment and ran his eyes over the lettered mystery until his lessons came back at him, words flowing across his silent lips. It was a letter from Robb Stark.

"Have Maester Pylos and his endless patience proven fruitful?"

"Your grace?"

"Read it out loud," the king commanded.

Davos obeyed. _"To the King on the Iron Throne,"_ the letter began, and it went on explaining that the self-styled King in the North had declared the remaining Freys outlaws and asked Stannis Baratheon to assist him in their capture, should they flee into his domain. " _We propose a permanent state of piece between the two kingdoms known as The Iron Throne and The North,_ _"_ he said, then paused.

"Finish the rest."

" _We propose to establish borders at the traditional markers of the River Kings, whilst ceding Harrenhaal to the Iron Throne,_ _"_ Davos read. _"The North and the Riverlands are eager to assist our leal ally King Stannis Baratheon in his policing action against the rebels and traitors within his kingdom."_

"He calls me the King on the Iron Throne," Stannis said dourly. "I suppose we are meant to bond over our common troubles."

"My King," Melisandre said, drawing no reaction from him at all. She floated around the table, her long fingers dancing across her king's shoulders, then stood between Davos and Stannis. "You must not let half your kingdom slip away."

"Don't lecture me on my own kingdom, woman," he growled.

She only smiled and rubbed his back softly. "If Stark does not submit, he can be replaced. All that matters is we settle these petty squabbles and join the real war, the only war that matters. We must go north."

"If you mention the Great Other again, I am going to hit you."

She smiled again and bowed. "So be it. But the war rages on, and we sit in our island of stone and talk of weddings and borders. There is only one border, and it is the horizon. Everything before it belongs to the king."

"What happened at the wedding?" Davos said, then immediately flushed with embarrassment. _Was I supposed to know this? Wasn_ _'t it just the Tully heir wedding a Frey girl?_

"Robb Stark murdered Walder Frey and his entire family," Stannis said in a slow, mocking voice. "Turned into a wolf and joined his other wolf, or something like that. Throats were ripped, blood was drunk, rivers were swollen with the dead. The usual."

Davos's jaw dropped and he tried to summon a response, but Stannis waved him off with a gesture. "Or the Freys sprung a trap and he slipped free of its grasp. I believe the latter. Ser Edwyn tells me the former."

Davos wracked his memory for who Ser Edwyn was and why he was important. "Walder Frey's heir," Stannis said, before he could come up with the answer on his own. "Son of Ryman, recently slain by a wolf or what have you, son of Ser Stevron who died on campaign, son of Walder Frey, torn asunder by foul sorceries. Did I miss anyone?"

Melisandre chuckled warmly and smirked as if it were the most absurd idea she'd heard all day. "The old demons pulled up their roots and did something useful. For once."

"What she means," Stannis said, "is the traitors failed to put down the Starks, and now they are looking for any excuse they can muster. Ser Edwyn is a fugitive and has reached out to Dragonstone for succor."

Davos nearly asked of Stannis's response, but just before the words left his lips, his addled mind set itself. Ser Edwyn would not have a raven roost available to receive a message, of course, so Stannis had not sent any response at all. "If he comes," Davos said instead, "will we turn him away?"

"I will execute him and family as traitors," Stannis said, simply. "I will pardon the bannermen, knights, and smallfolk that he brings along. Even if I am inclined to ignore their transgressions against my crown, the Freys violated guest right, and that trumps any offer they might bring me. Or maybe the wolf story is true, in which case I better start doing anything I can to appease the King in the North."

Melisandre took a step away from him and frowned, but said nothing. Stannis looked at her with contempt. "What, woman? A jape about magic wolves shakes your faith? If your trick with the leeches were worth anything, we'd be having this conversation in the Red Keep."

"Balon Greyjoy is dead," she said.

Davos had heard the rumor already and put little stock in it. Neither had Stannis, apparently, as he only sighed impatiently and shrugged. "An old man walked a rickety bridge and fell to his death, or perhaps nothing of the sort happened at all. His treacherous brother is said to come the day after. Is this Euron Greyjoy your god's agent? Or are you seeing the rain fall and demanding gold for another dance?"

Melisandre pursed her lips and straightened her back. She regarded her king with those smoldering eyes, leaving Davos completely forgotten. "There is only one God, and he is yours and mine both. The Lord of Light has many agents, of which you are the greatest, and I am but a disposable servant. I have told you of all this many times."

"And you promised me four dead usurpers," he said. "You've given me one and taken credit for another, while the two most dangerous still live. What happened with Robb Stark, anyway? Ser Edwyn tells me that the Lord of Light was beaten by a tree. You aren't doing well."

Davos had long given up on predicting how Melisandre would react to the King's barbs, so he was not surprised when that last comment made her only smile a third time and soften her posture. She stepped up to him and rubbed his back, purring something quiet and familiar in his ear. Had she picked up a hint in his voice and decided that all was not lost? _A little soothing will put him on the right track. That_ _'s our Stannis._

He'd watched him go from the most respected military commander in Westeros, a true King with a fleet and a formidable army behind him, to a desperate, wounded dog close to exile and hiding on a rock in the middle of the sea. Without her, Stannis would not have challenged Renly directly on the field, but gone after his bannermen one by one, seeking oaths as a king should. Davos would not have seen the horror at Storm's End and a brave man would still be alive. If the Freys practiced treachery and the Starks sorcery, Stannis was guilty of both, and all of it came at the behest of his wife's shadowbinder and her queer fire god.

Said shadowbinder looked between the two men with that easy, confident smile touching her eyes. "The Lord of Light has many agents, but so does the Great Other." Davos waited for the promised slap, but none came. "They kill each other in the North, the Riverlands, and the Iron Islands. The Drowned God lies beneath the waves in thrall to the Enemy, and his servants fight over sand and salt. The Children pit their dogs against one another while we wait and grow. We will bring the war to them, soon enough, and the banners of the Enemy will burn beneath the flaming stag." She turned to Davos. "All this I have seen, Lord Hand."

 _And you will dance on cloven hooves._ A flash of memory from the nightmare made him shudder. "You say our power grows," Davos said. He looked to Stannis, but the king only leaned on his fists and ground his teeth. "How, again, do you mean to grow this power?"

He knew the answer, of course, but he had already decided to take every available opportunity, no matter how unrelated, to remind his king of what precisely the Red Woman meant to do. She clucked her tongue and shook her head sadly, then gestured to the table.

"I will do nothing," she said, "but the Lord of Light will knock the pieces off this board one by one." She turned to Stannis. "Power requires sacrifice, my king. The Lord of Light does not give to those who take greedily and give nothing in return. You know all of this."

"Then why are you telling me?" he growled.

"Because the boy yet lives."

"All three of the boys yet live," Stannis said. "The one you mean, plus the usurpers. I told you, give me two and I give you the third. You can stop preaching to me until then."

She pursed her lips and stiffened again. _He is learning to set her off. Is that a good thing?_

"So Edric Storm will live," Davos said, forcing Stannis to hear the name again. "Your brother's son, Edric, who is friends with your daughter, his cousin. We are in agreement not to burn him alive, hmm?"

The King took a deep breath and turned his head to burrow a hole in Melisandre's forehead with his eyes. "Edric Storm will live," he said, deep and certain. "Do not broach the subject to me until your god has produced the promised corpses. And do not offer to burn Edwyn Frey when he arrives. He has broken the law of guest right, and justice demands a harsher punishment."

The Red Woman flinched at his words. Davos thought of all the times Stannis had taken that tone with his own followers, but he couldn't remember Melisandre ever getting the iron dismissal to one of her ideas. As long as she was useful, he knew, the King would keep her around, listen to her nonsense, say the right words, and wear the right sigil. Enough failures, and the king might be persuaded that her usefulness had come to an end.

Davos tried to take a deep breath of the salty air, but the burning fuel within the braziers hid the scent. _I need to be at sea._ Arguing theology in a little stone room wasn't the kind of life he was cut out for. _At least the boy will live. I_ _'ve done that much, if I've done anything at all._

"I hope you will see reason soon enough," Melisandre said. She offered a deep, formal bow, then turned and walked away.

When she was gone, Stannis looked to the window again. "Sun's almost up."

"When can we expect the Freys?"

"Probably never." Davos waited a few moments for Stannis to continue. "What do you think, Lord Hand? Do you believe Robb Stark really wrapped his paws around the magic of the Old Gods?"

 _A too-heavy spear, and a carousel of death._ Davos pushed the dream away. "I doubt they could perform such a feat so far south," he said, remembering his history.

"For lack of bloody-eyed trees?"

Davos nodded. "Their roots grow deep, so deep as to-" he gulped. "What I mean is, the gods touch where they may, but here in the south, we have little to be concerned about. The Andals have seen to the problem already."

"Those direwolves seem a touch more mobile."

 _What is he getting at?_ "I suppose they are familiars of the old gods, if there ever were any."

Stannis sighed. "The old gods offer no power whatsoever," he said. "Nor any guidance, or even the barest evidence that they even exist. An odd plant and a particularly large breed of wolf do not a diety make. The northerners just carve bloody eyes in their white trees and hope somebody is listening. The Seven have their books and their superstitions, but the Red Woman has real magic, deadly and unnerving. You've seen it."

He had, and he preferred not to let his memories drift back to Storm's End. Perhaps some years might erase it the memory entirely. At his age, though, he was more likely to forget everything all at once. Still, it wasn't the first time in his life he'd seen magic, or something close to it, and though what Melisandre had accomplished was intriguing, he could not cross that barrier in his mind between the higher mysteries and divine power.

"There are no shortage of sorcerers in the world," Davos said. "Nor are we lacking in magicians who work illusions of mortal talent. I've also seen some particularly convincing mummers, and every port features outright charlatans in red robes with sleeve pouches full of fire powder. Perhaps she is only one of those, and what magic she does work is of her own design. We must not abandon our gods each time a witch casts a spell. Nor must we close our minds when Robb Stark calls on his."

Stannis considered his words for a moment, then nodded. "I've heard it all before, but if you're saying it, it must be true. Enough on this topic. Edric is under guard, and no, they are not my wife's men. Kinslaying is nearly as bad as breaking guest right, and it hardly matters if you hold the bloody knife yourself, or if you stand back and a women in red do it for you."

"Then we should talk about the Stormlands," Davos said, and they did.

Minutes later, Davos was blinking away exhaustion and taking the first of many steps up to Maester Pylos's study. His knees creaked with the effort, but the pain brought him enough energy to put one foot in front of the other. _It is always young men who build these damnable things._

Thinking about maesters only reminded him of poor Cressen, the last person besides himself who'd tried to remove Melisandre from the king's side. He'd done the work with poison, and he'd failed in the worst way imaginable. Davos came back from all that time stranded at sea with a similar sacrifice etched on his heart, but the fires had seen him coming, and so his plan had turned into a quick arrest and a slow imprisonment. Could he try again? Her magic seemed to wane with the summer. This time, would the knife escape her notice?

After all, she'd gotten the wedding wrong. Where else might she have made such obvious mistakes? What did the burning heart banner really mean? Who was the sacrifice in his dream? Davos could only guess at the answers to those questions, but he knew that no god fed either of them the insight of the fates. Melisandre painted the image of success with careful language and good timing, and even then, the fires only spoke when she needed to manipulate the king into doing something unwise.

 _She_ _'s nearly gotten herself thrown out on this Edric Storm business, no help from me._ Renly's death had left a sour taste in his brother's mouth, Davos knew, and the string of failures since only lowered her more and more in his eyes. Queen Selyse would not be swayed, of course, nor would her stubbornly faithful family, but the King could banish the lot of them if he wished and still have an army strong enough to take a throne. All he needed was time, money, and land. The Stormlands.

"Three new letters from the Seven Kingdoms," Maester Pylos said by way of greeting. "I've left them for you, as you instructed."

"From whom?"

The young man shrugged. He was pouring over some stacks of parchment bearing a faded seven-pointed star, then turning and jotting down brief phrases in fresh ink and his quick, efficient script. Davos could hardly make out any of it, as small as the letters were. He preferred reading words written in hands as clumsy as his own. Big, blocky, and thick-stemmed made for easier reading.

He took a seat by an east window where the morning sun illuminated half of the table. Three letters the same size as Robb Stark's offer lay curled on the desk. Davos opened the first and held it up to the light, reading silently and moving his lips. _I need to stop doing that._

If Maester Pylos noticed, he didn't say anything. The first letter was some nonsense about a wedding, but not one of the ones where everyone died. The second was a polite refusal from a Stormlander to send aid in men and gold to his exiled king. _He will regret that, soon._ The last, though, came from the Wall, and though it was written in the hand of a Maester Clydas, he knew the words belonged to none other than Aemon Targaryen, the oldest man in the world and the one dragon prince whom Robert had spared when he'd wrapped the rest of them in red.

Davos nearly began to read the letter out loud, but thought better of it. _Don_ _'t move your lips._ He read the first line silently with only a tug around the edge of his mouth. Something about a battle beyond the Wall, the Others, the Wildlings, Castle Black…

"The Others?" he said, recoiling in sudden shock. "Did you read this?"

Pylos arched an eyebrow at him and snatched the letter out of his hand. "Give me that. What is- uh…"

Davos took the letter back and dashed out the door and down the stairs, legs pounding with each step. Though the force shook his bones he felt no pain, and he seemed to move as if he were twenty again and hauling cargo in and out of a ship's hold. The spiral staircase ended and he bounded through the door to the Chamber of the Painted Table, but Stannis was already gone and the room lay empty. Davos glanced at the table as he ran by and saw that most of the pieces were laying on their side, including all of the Lannisters and Tyrells, but the Stag stood triumphantly over Storm's End. _We all have our visions_.

When he reached the king's quarters, Davos rapped on the door and stepped back, hands fidgeting, heart pounding from the sudden exertion. When the door opened a moment later, a bleary-eyed Stannis stood on the other side. Behind him, Melisandre sat in a chair with her hands in her lap.

Stannis looked at him quizzically. "Yes?"

Davos tried to speak but all that came were gasps. Stannis waited patiently for him to catch his breath.

"Read this," he finally said, handing over the letter. "Raven just came today from Castle Black."

Stannis's lips moved with his eyes. _At least it_ _'s not just me._ "Is this a joke?"

"Not a joke, my king," came Melisandre's voice, drifting from the back of the room.

"She has quite the story to share, Davos. Convenient that the Lord of Light grants her stunning new visions right after I've questioned everything."

"Your grace-"

"The Others march," Stannis continued, ignoring his Hand. "She said it's a fresh message from the flames. Must have been a short vision." He turned back to her. "Where did it happen, woman? A brazier in the hallway?"

Davos had only been gone for a couple of minutes, including the stairs. "The letter comes from Aemon Targaryen. I think we can believe it."

"The ancient dragon is well outside of his own time," Melisandre said, "but the Lord of Light still speaks through him, as he has so often in the past."

The king ignored her too. "She also has some words about you, onion knight."

Davos froze, and Stannis continued before he could respond. "Says you're here on a mission from the Drowned God, of all the bizarre creatures in all the world, and she says you've come here to unleash foul sorceries and slay the both of us. Do I have that right?"

 _Roots that touch the bottom of the sea._ Melisandre nodded deeply with a broad, disingenuous smile across her face. "The one who shall not be named has many agents, and though you deny it in earnest, you are one of them, Lord Davos. You wield the same sorcery as Robb Stark, the curse of the Old Gods, and it has been inflicted on both of you for use in the war to come."

"I thought you said it was the Drowned God," Stannis droned.

"They are all thralls of the enemy," she said, dismissing the distinction with a wave of her pale hand. "To them, names are worthless. The dead one touched your Hand after the battle of the Blackwater. I have been shown this truth, and though you cannot blame the poor man for his misfortune, you must act." Her satisfied smile curled into a wry grin. _I want to make your dreams come true._

"Wait until she tells you how the sorcery works," Stannis said, exasperated. _._

"You have come to us with a weapon concealed about your person," Melisandre said, rising from her chair and gliding across the floor. "The curse rains destruction on your enemies and your own body, alike. It is a weapon of steel and leather, not unlike a dagger but bent in the middle, and death bursts in fire and smoke from its tip." She reached the doorway and leaned into Stannis, reaching up and laying both hands on his shoulders at once. "I have seen the weapons, many of them, and I have seen lions slain in great numbers where the rivers meet. I have seen corpses rise from the sea at the behest of the dead god, a noose of seaweed in one hand and a knife of fire in the other. The krakens sink and the onions float. And I have seen your cursed weapon trampled by the stag, so I do not fear for our king. I fear for your soul."

Stannis laughed. "You see what I have to deal with?"

Davos felt around in his pockets reflexively, then shook his head and cursed himself for foolishness. _Of course I_ _'m not carrying around a magic knife._ He changed the subject. "The real battle is in the north," he said, sparing a quick glance at the Red Woman. "That's what she's always said, right? I know little of this business about Others and dead gods, but I do know that Maester Aemon would not treat such a subject lightly. I know the Wildlings are flesh-and-blood, and they are coming, and without a proper power in the North to stop them, half your kingdom will be aflame by winter."

"And we can do what, exactly, for them?" Stannis said, frowning. "The krakens still swim. The northerners have their own king. Let them beg for the protection of the Iron Throne after they have buried their pretender in the crypts of Winterfell."

"They do not have their own king," Davos said, quietly. "They have only you."

Stannis thought that over for a moment, but when his eyes set in determination Davos knew he'd lost. "I will stitch my realm together from the south, first," the king said. "I'll wager the only weapon on your body right now is a knife meant for cutting ropes, and I assume it rarely sets fires. I don't need witches and visions to tell me that Stark and Lannister have given me an irresistible opportunity. We will liberate Winterfell and the rest in due time, I promise. For now, I have a kingdom to rebuild."

"The Seven Kingdoms will not know the enemy until it is rotting on their doorstep," Melisandre said to Davos. "When the Wall has fallen and the north is covered in White, only then will the Andals call on their rightful king. They will pray into their nightfires for our god to chase away the darknesses, and then we are all saved by the coming of the dawn. Much is lost by the end, but not all, and the enemy marches to his doom. I regret you will not live to know it."

"Because I'm going to try and kill the king?" Davos said sarcastically.

"When the Great Other hands you the weapon," she said. "You will try, but you will fail."

Stannis laughed again shrugged her off. "A moment ago you said he had it already. Make up your mind, woman."

She shrugged as if it were the least important question in the world. "Mayhaps he does. The headless wolf has not yet come."

"That's a new one," Stannis drawled.

"The Lord of Light tells me what he will."

"Shouldn't a fire knife be one of _his_ tricks?" Stannis asked. "Isn't the breath of the Great Other all cold and darkness?"

"Any fool can light a fire," she said, waving away the objection. The Red Woman stepped around Stannis and pushed past Davos through the doorway. "Any smith can hammer a blade, any swordsman can wield it. Be sure you are neither the fool nor the swordsman."

"I'm tired," Stannis suddenly said. "Leave me, both of you. We will plan the campaign tomorrow. Don't bring me any more news until the evening." He turned to Melisandre, looking over Davos's shoulder. "And you. Don't whisper in my ear until I ask. Write down the bloody visions or something, but stop interrupting my sleep. It's bad enough already that I lie awake until dawn."

He shut the door in Davos's face. Melisandre regarded him with a flat expression and mystery in her eyes, then drifted away without another word.


	5. Sansa I

SANSA

Her husband came back to her sore and exhausted from a long day of hard work on the walls of King's Landing. His burden was to walk about the battlements and mark checks on stack after stack of parchment, only stopping to yell at a hundred laborers who spoke half as many languages and did a quarter as much work for what they'd been paid. That's how he told the story, anyway, but if Sansa doubted his version of events, she kept her mouth shut. She knew that a wife was expected to listen quietly, smile at the funny parts and frown at the sad ones, and occasionally make some noises that sound vaguely like sympathy. _Keep your head down until you see Robb walk through that door instead._ She didn't question how Tyrion managed to translate for all those foreigners, nor why he didn't have foremen in his employ to do the yelling and the whipping, and she especially did not bring up why the crown would ignore the teeming mass of strong backs in Flea Bottom in favor of some blue-haired Tyroshi mongrels. His words.

"Your father has given you a great honor," she reminded him, and that got a smile out of him at least.

She was smiling, too, but not because of the farcical marriage play she scripted and performed every day since Tyrion had pinned the lion cloak to her shoulders. She _was_ grateful that the Imp hadn't taken his husbandly rights on her body, and for that small favor, she was content to tolerate his endless complaints with poise and dignity, even if time might one day test the limits of her patience. But when she found herself grinning madly in the darkness, it wasn't at the behest of Tyrion's mercy, nor her preserved chastity, nor even her isolated room in the Tower of the Hand, far from the eyes and ears of Cersei Lannister. Every time she'd spot a raven flying past her window and into the rookery of the Red Keep, her heart would soar and the stars themselves seemed to sing with joy. She slept soundly, dreamt merrily, and spent her days looking forward to a hopeful future of freedom and flourish, with fewer days remaining in front of her than those she'd already endured behind.

Sansa was happy because Robb was winning.

Not _just_ winning. The Queen had told Tyrion to burn the letters, but he'd smuggled them in anyway, and they were nothing but good news. The rebels had thwarted a terrible trap with sorcery and steel, struck a savage blow against the enemy, and fortified their position within the Riverlands to such a degree that the Lannisters were forced to ride out and deal with them in a decisive battle. Multiple accounts confirmed it, some from enemies and some from allies, and even one from the King himself, written in her brother's own hand. _The King in the North. Does that make me Queen? Or Princess?_ The rules were all different depending on where you went. The Targaryens would have called her Princess, but the Starks could make up any rule they wanted, couldn't they?

But there was still an actual Lannister queen left within the sanctuary of King's Landing, and Cersei had rejected the terms, of course. Tyrion had laughed at that, because the gold chain lying across his neck reminded everyone that her word meant nothing. Still, Joffrey would not agree to any peace, and if Tyrion tried to subvert his will in any way, the boy king would put his head on a spike before Tywin could return. Instead, Tyrion had sent a polite refusal and gone back to the task of preparing the city for a second Baratheon assault.

"Of course, we owe so much in interest payments to the Iron Bank and everywhere else that I don't know how we can get the funds together without borrowing more," he went on. They were sitting on the edge of his bed, which she had cleaned and prepared herself. "Did you know we haven't received a single tribute from the Vale since Jon Arryn died? I believe they are saving the money to see who wins."

She smiled and rubbed his back absent-mindedly. "You'll figure it out. You always do."

"Huh."

He looked over to her and she quickly retracted her hand. "You've always had a head for figures, is what I mean."

Tyrion nodded. "Right. Head for figures. That's me. I'd rather have an arm for a sword, though, if I had the choice."

"Sword arms are cheap." Sansa looked up at the door to the chamber and sighed. "You can buy as many as you like."

 _And buy them you have._ No less than six armed men stood outside the Hand's quarters, scowling at the empty hallway and just waiting for someone to show up with ill intent. Varys had already shown Sansa the trapdoor in the fireplace, and the strange man had assured her that Cersei would not be able to use it to send hired knives into her chamber while she slept. The men outside were to make a mighty racket if anyone as dangerous as a Kingsguard approached with a demand for Sansa's arrest, and though Tyrion's hired men would stand aside with their swords sheathed and let the killers pass, Ser Meryn would only find an empty chamber and a burning fireplace where a captured princess once lived.

"Try not to make too much noise tonight, dear," Tyrion said, yawning. "You wouldn't want to give the boys anything to talk about."

He was teasing her, of course, and he had been doing so more and more since he'd taken up that chain again. With the chain comes power, and with power comes the hubris to wield it. Why shouldn't a wedded man have a wife who pleases him? The thought did not sicken her as much as it once did, but she had always meant to promise herself to her real husband, and their marriage had been forced at mutual swordpoint. Sansa refused to submit to sexual slavery. She might accept a union meant to bolster her family's power, even if the man were old, ugly, and wretched, but she would only do so of her own will, and with the approval and consent of her king. Her father never would have forced her to kneel for the Imp. He wouldn't have even suggested it.

 _Until the marriage is consummated, I am still free._ Sansa was grateful that Tyrion had his whore to relieve his man's pressures, for his sake as much as her own. When the war was over, Sansa would reunite with her family, and Robb would likely marry her off for peace to Willas Tyrell, Edric Storm, or some other powerful ally's son. She grimaced when she realized Theon Greyjoy might have been on that list, had things turned out differently. She'd gone through her most sensitive years with that boy's lecherous eyes crawling across her body. _He thought he was the wolf stalking the lamb, but he had his own wool over his eyes._ When the war in the south was over, Robb would take Winterfell back and scour the land of the Greyjoys and all their ilk. Ice would take the turncloak's head as it was always meant to, and her poor brothers would be avenged.

But what would happen to Tyrion Lannister? Stannis Baratheon would probably kill him, though if anyone could talk his way out of a beheading, it was her husband. Robb would spare him if she asked, of course. The Imp hadn't hurt her. He'd actually _protected_ her in his own small way, even when she was betrothed to Joffrey and completely under his power. She owed him a pardon, as long as nothing changed.

Or, if it _did_ change.

"Why _do_ you defend the city?" she blurted out.

Tyrion grunted and shifted in his bed. Sansa suddenly realized that he'd long ago lain down and drifted off to sleep, all while she sat on the edge of the bed and daydreamed about freedom and victory.

She quickly stood and smoothed down her skirt. "Sorry. I'll go."

"Wait," he croaked. Tyrion yawned and stretched, then sat up on his elbows and opened his eyes. "What did you ask me again?"

"King's Landing," she said, gesturing to the room around her as if it represented the whole of the city. "Why do you work so hard to build the walls, train the men, and balance the books? Why not just take a purse with you to Braavos and buy a villa on the water? You can marry Shae and drink the rest of your days away, if that's what you want."

Tyrion started to open his mouth for some retort, but for once sharp words failed him. Either she had asked a very good question, or maybe he was just tired. "I have a duty to my family," was all he said.

 _You can do better than that_. "Your family has done nothing but shit on you since the day you were born. Your sister hates you outright. Your brother treats you as a leper, and your father still blames you for your own birth. You post guards on your door because your nephew want to kill your wife just to spite you. There is a whole world out there for you, and if duty is what you want, there are a thousand men who deserve you better. I can think of one in particular."

Her husband let that stir for a long time. He lay back down flat on the bed and stared at the ceiling, furrowing his brow and moving his lips as if working out the problem in his head. If his eyes weren't open, she might think he had fallen asleep.

He finally spoke. "My brother doesn't treat me as a leper."

Sansa realized she was making a broad assumption about a man she hardly knew, aside from his ill reputation. "The rest, then," she persisted. "Nevermind Jaime, but Joffrey and Cersei are monstrous towards you. Your father doesn't appreciate you. Wouldn't you want to work for someone who does? Or nobody at all?"

He looked at her and smiled. "Tempting. But a dwarf has a tough time getting by in this world, even when he fails to not be a Lannister."

"You can stand on the piles of gold."

"My my," he said, wagging a finger. "Aren't you the persuasive one? I suppose Stannis Baratheon would be one to appreciate me, then? Or Robb Stark?"

He was teasing her, but the seed of the idea was planted. She would need to take more time to let it grow. "Stannis would probably cut off your head," she admitted, "no matter who you served. Technically, every choice you can make betrays one oath or another." She had never met the man, of course, but she knew his reputation. He had once maimed a commoner for saving his life. "But my brother wouldn't, especially when I tell him how you valiantly defended me against the Kingsguard and smuggled me out of the city. No northerner would call you enemy ever again. Nor would anybody in Braavos."

 _Say Braavos enough times and it_ _'s bound to set in._ Tyrion sighed and rolled over, then reached back and waved her off. "Enough treason for one day, dear. I need my beauty sleep. Not that you know anything about that."

It was an upside-down compliment, but it was passable enough to make her smile. She had to smile as much as she could, and gather her strength about her. Tomorrow, she would have to face Joffrey again.

Sansa took a seat as far down the table as she dared. _If Cersei notices, she_ _'ll make me sit on Joffrey's lap._ A long line of Tyrells and Lannisters took most of the seats of honor, with assorted lickspittles like Stokeworth, Chelsted, and some Westermen wearing coats of arms she didn't recognize shoving each other aside to fill in the gaps. She exchanged glances with Margaery, who sat on the corner seat closest to Joffrey, and silently she thanked her for falling on Joffrey's sword. Had this celebration happened before the Blackwater, it would be Sansa who took had to endure the worst seat in the house.

Strangers took the seats immediately next to her. One was a ragged-looking older man with the face of a put-upon war veteran, though his scars and poor dress gave him little to show for his sacrifice. On the other side was a highborn woman about Sansa's age who looked as nervous and out of place as she felt. The girl tried to strike up conversation but Sansa only smiled and nodded politely, then turned back to scanning the crowd.

The Queen's ballroom fit forty at the main table and about two hundred scattered about the room. Cersei herself sat directly opposite Margaery and, blessedly, a line of supplicants blocked Sansa's direct line of sight. Had that not been the case, she'd have spent the entire event struggling to avoid meeting Cersei's eyes. Aside from her ragged neighbor, everyone who qualified for the main table looked to be born higher the next, a competition of dress and poise that spread to the satellite tables and all the way to the edges of the room. Even the help was dressed in rich fabrics, if modest in color, no doubt provided by the Throne at its expense to get a point across about wartime wealth.

Course after course came to their table, though Sansa only nibbled and, most of all, she avoided anything Dornish looking, for fear of making unwomanly noises or ruining her makeup. The veteran next to her pushed away every plate and sat silent and frowning. His heraldry was a bunch of crabs drawn on white, but Sansa couldn't remember who exactly that was. _Probably on the coast, or maybe an island._ All around them, though, was a cacophony of activity, gossips and sycophants alike jockeying for position within Joffrey's court and making Sansa hate every second of it.

Her stomach fluttered when the first presents arrived. _Perhaps a snarling wolf will leap out of the wrapping instead._ Her husband had left her with the task of delivering their gift alone, while he used some excuse about the Hand's business to get him out of the chore of the reception and all of the other pre-wedding ceremonies. This nonsense was set to go all day before the exchange of cloaks and a second feast. _Lannisters have two feasts in one day while their men torch fields in the Riverlands._ Paid for by the Tyrells, she knew, as were nearly all of the best gifts.

The present Tyrion had picked out sat in her lap. For some reason, the weight of the book comforted her, as if Maester Kaeth would keep her company with his tepid retelling of some of his favorite dragon kings. _The illuminations are beautiful, though._ Or was it her husband keeping her company from afar? Each petitioner alternated between a blathering speech, an overwrought oath of fealty, and a presentation of some jeweled trinket that the King would probably throw in a pile somewhere in the Red Keep and forget about forever. Perhaps it was news of the Twins that eased her mind and allowed her to tune out the babble. She touched the rough canvas wrapping around the enormous leatherbound book, and when her still-smoldering elation over Robb's victory threatened to present itself with a smile, she forced herself to look at her hands and offer her most sullen frown. Surrounded by enemies, she feared giving away anything, lest word run up the table to Joffrey and the Queen that somehow Sansa Stark was not miserable. _I needn_ _'t give him more excuses to beat me._

"Because the scorpion stings and lays low the gazelle," the handsome Dornish prince said to the king, "so the lion can come at his leisure to feast."

 _That makes no sense_. Gazelles had hooves, she knew, and if anything, it was the lion's paw that was vulnerable to the scorpion's venom. Still, the Dornishman had taken her out of her trance with his sultry voice and melodic accent. He handed Joffrey a scorpion brooch in the Lannister colors and, if the boy even knew what a gazelle was, Joffrey didn't work out the riddle. _He is mocking him_.

Prince Oberyn Martell was his name, and he was dressed in the loose, silk robes so popular in the south. Sansa watched him bow and walk back to his table full of exotic foreigners, and as he reached his seat, she noticed that all of the other women at the table watched him, too. _The whole room has eyes on him. Even some of the men._ Oberyn sat down next to a tall, striking Dornishwoman with curly black hair and glittering jewels all around her neck and fingers. _If only I were held captive in Dorne, instead._ Sansa's heart fluttered at the thought, but the errant emotion was a liability, so she closed her eyes and struggled to purge herself of dreams too beautiful to dream in public.

"Is he under the table?" came the creature's mocking voice. "Or did I eat him on accident? Perhaps he fell in vat of stew and nobody noticed."

Suddenly, all eyes were on her. Sansa blushed and looked around frantically for some sign of what she missed. "Your husband," the crab stranger said softly.

 _Thank you._ "He is indisposed," Sansa said, with all the force in her voice she could muster. It came out far more resolute and confident than she would have expected. _I need to play the wilting flower._ She let her shoulders sag, then dropped her voice to a pathetic whine. "The Hand's duties take him away for most of the day. I will send for him when the wedding begins."

"Don't bother," Joffrey said, chewing on something and spitting as he talked. "Smells better without him. Where's my gift?"

Joffrey licked his hands clean and wiped his mouth. _Get it overwith, Sansa._ She grimaced, sighed, and stood, cradling the book in her arms and pressing the wrinkles out of her dress. _It will all be over in a moment._ Cersei, a vision in all her red and gold, gave her an eyeful as she walked by. Though the Queen said nothing out loud, she looked her up and down from head to toe, smirked, and shook her head sadly, as if Sansa were some poor thing to be mocked and a hardly worthy bride to any Lannister. _I_ _'m a Tully and a Stark. If I'm not good enough for your standards, the Maiden herself would draw your scorn._

She approached the boy king. "My husband regrets his absence-" she started, but Joffrey held up a greasy hand.

"You already said that part. Give it to me."

She held the book aloft. The weight dragged her arms down, but she locked her elbows and waited for him to take it from her. For a few agonizing seconds he just looked at it, then up to her, then twisted his face into a snarl. "Open it, you lazy bitch."

 _Hand me a knife and I_ _'ll hand it back._ "Of course."

She set the book down on the table and reached for a knife to cut the canvas. Steel shifted behind her and she knew that a Kingsguard, probably that ugly bastard Trant, was hovering over her in case she did something hasty. _You_ _'re next_. Thoughts of spurting blood and sticky hands flashed through her mind, but she banished it quick as it came, lest she give away her fantasy to anyone with an eye for observation. Instead, she only picked up the knife clumsily, as if such things were foreign to her, and slashed the canvas wrapping apart.

"A book?" Joffrey exclaimed, adding a child's giggle. He leaned back in his too-tall chair. "My uncle would read me a bedtime story?"

Tyrion's uncle Kevan approached the table from his exile on the other side of the room. "Lord Tyrion knows you look forward to a long and prosperous reign," he said, "and so he's brought you the definitive text on the greatest kings of the last three centuries. Perhaps your studies will help you learn from their success and failures until you surpass even great Jaehaerys the Conciliator, the wisest of all kings."

Ser Kevan exchanged a quick glance from Sansa but she couldn't quite make out the expression. _An apology, perhaps?_ She would thank him later, if she had the chance. _Tyrion said he_ _'s one of the good ones._ He turned to Joffrey and his eyes suddenly hardened, his posture straightened, and his ungloved hand even clenched briefly into a fist. The little bastard shrank back somewhat, but Margaery reached over and touched his thigh, a subtle and tender gesture that Sansa nearly overlooked.

He blinked away his fear and sat up straight. "Will you be staying for the wedding, Uncle?" Joffrey said.

Sansa barely stopped herself from recoiling in shock at the civility in his question. _Margaery is coaching him_. With hundreds of eyes on them from six kingdoms and several of the Free Cities, the Lannisters needed to show solidarity in their ranks. Tywin's lapdog could hardly be publicly admonished by his fellow Lannister. _Everyone knows, but nobody will say it out loud._

Ser Kevan, for his part, didn't miss a beat. "After the exchange of cloaks, I must ride back to the front lines with great haste. I will not bore you with the details. Your grandfather sends his regrets that he was unable to attend, but-"

"The siege, of course," Joffrey said, interrupting him. "I would never compromise the safety of the realm over such frivolities as a wedding feast." _You don_ _'t even know what the word frivolities means._ Margaery nudged him, a move so slight that Sansa would have missed it, had she not been watching closely for any shift at all in her posture. Joffrey continued. "Lord Tywin and Lord Tyrion are both to be commended for their absence, and their dedication. The war goes well in the west, I expect?"

Cersei reached out a hand as if to caution her son from talking politics at the celebration, but he ignored her, and so did Ser Kevan. "We have little opposition to speak of. The Crag is under siege, as is Riverrun and all the strongpoints south of the Twins. The bloodiest stage of the war is over, so you will be able to use this new lull in the fighting to rebuild and restore the Seven Kingdoms, as you have long wished."

Sansa wondered which of Joffrey's minders had arranged the dialog. Tyrion told her that Tywin and Kevan always planned their little speeches, no matter how small the council, but had he pulled the same trick with Joffrey? Or did Margaery prepare the script while Kevan traveled back from the war? _Tyrell and Lannister, putting on a show for the world._ They couldn't afford a repeat of the days when the little monster had ordered her stripped and beaten in full view of the court, not with a war still raging on multiple fronts, and especially so soon after a major humiliation in the Riverlands.

Cersei glanced between them, frowning, and she seemed to ignore Sansa completely. _She is out of the loop._ Why else would Tywin Lannister have sent his brother back in the middle of the war? It was under Cersei's supervision that Ser Meryn had beaten her bloody, after all, and she'd allowed similar outbursts where their enemies' spies could see and hear. Tyrion would find all of this fascinating, she knew, and she made a plan in her head to report everything back to him the next time they spoke.

Ser Kevan glanced at Sansa one more time, this time lingering for a few moments. _What does he want from me?_ The Lannister knight held a blank expression and turned back to the king. "Lord Tywin shall give you his wedding present personally on the day the war ends. He will hand you the rebel's head on a silver platter, and all the realm will rejoice in your victory."

If Tyrion's uncle was concerned about upsetting Sansa, he shouldn't have been. That kind of talk didn't even make her blink, not anymore, and certainly not since the Twins. Kevan continued. "My gift, meanwhile, is an announcement, a message to my king and to all the free people of Westeros." _So, everyone but me._ Ser Kevan cleared his throat, puffed out his chest, and drew in a deep breath. "Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, has been rescued from the dungeons of the enemy! He has been saved, and returns to King's Landing even now to stand by his lord!"

Sansa's heart dropped to the floor. The crowd roared around her and Kevan patted Joffrey on the back, smiling broadly. The noise deadened to a dull buzzing in her ears as she stared at her feet. _He was the lynchpin._ Who could they trade now? Unless Robb managed to capture Tywin himself in a lightning raid, there was little hope of securing an adequate replacement hostage for later negotiations. Perhaps they might set her free in exchange for a sheer volume of prisoners , but most of those would be fighting men who would return to the front to kill Starks. _I would rather endure this for a hundred years than see that happen._ Jaime Lannister was only one man, and a failed military commander at that, so she wasn't worried to see him loose. The Kingslayer would stand harmlessly by his bastard son while the war finished up, and she would finally get to go home.

And now? The Twins would be nearly impossible to assault, Tyrion had once said, but the position of strength did her side little good if they had nothing to trade on it. Robb would need to truly crush Tywin Lannister in open warfare, and Sansa wasn't sure if that was even possible.

"You can sit back down now," a woman's voice whispered in her ear.

She turned to see Shae saunter by in her loose-fitting silks that would have let her blend right in with the Dornish party. She held aloft a tray full of sweets, walking the length of the table until a man seated near the end gestured for her to stop. She lowered the tray for him to take his pick while looking back and tossing Sansa a wink.

Cersei followed Shae with her eyes, but said nothing and gave away even less on her face. _The lioness is quiet today._ Sansa wondered what Tywin and Kevan must have said to her in private, since they'd somehow reduced her to another ornament on the king's arm. She had probably done the same thing when Robert was first crowned, but the Cersei she knew would spit and claw at the restraints. _Did she even know about Jaime?_ Before she reached her seat, Sansa risked a look back, where the Queen was leaning over as if staring in her lap. _We both have secrets to keep._

She took her usual seat and sighed with relief. The present was her one responsibility for the entire wedding, from the first guests to walk through the gates to the last serving of pigeon pie. The rest was a blur. Before she knew it, the reception finally concluded, and Sansa rushed away from the table and back to the Red Keep to hide in her husband's quarters. _Sit in silence for the wedding and the feast, and then you can lock yourself away until they say you_ _'ve been ransomed._

Or, until the lot of them were eaten by wolves.


	6. Catelyn II

CATELYN

The filthy little boy really was Arya.

The Frey maester had tried to shoo her off while he worked, but Catelyn had snarled at him until he finally compromised and let mother and daughter hold hands. Her memories after that point failed her, and she could only recall a haze of steel, blood, and strong arms, a gap in her memory between the moment Arya had risen from the dead and the moments hours - days? - later, when the maesters had returned to check on her again.

The bolts had sunk deep and bloody, but for the longest time, Catelyn hadn't felt anything besides joy, relief, and a bone-deep exhaustion. _And gratitude._ Everything before Arya's return was vivid and real as if it had happened only seconds before, from the sad song of Lannister atrocities, to the _twang_ of crossbows, the screams of the fighting and dying, and the roar of the Old Gods coming back to the world in her family's greatest time of need. _I have not forgotten you. I promise._

Catelyn would do as she had sworn. She would go to the Godswood under her own power if she could, or if she was still bedridden when the end was near, she would have them carry her. _I will feed your roots and make my promises then._ Great gifts require great sacrifice, and compared to what she had already received, she thought her own life a feeble thing. If it were to be lost in front of the weirwood tree, so be it.

But Arya was alive.

Her daughter rattled off her incredible story, starting from the moment the Kingsguard men had come in the Red Keep, through the death of her dancing master, to the valiant Black Brother who'd whisked her out of the city and lost his life for the trouble. Catelyn could hardly keep up and had to keep asking Arya to go back over the details again and again. Harwin was alive. He was one of the few Stark servants to escape the purges in King's Landing and Winterfell, and he'd spotted Arya and helped keep her safe for a time. Thoros of Myr was sober and some kind of wizard, Lord Beric was still loyal to long-dead Robert, and the Hound had saved Arya's life and brought her to the Twins in exchange for a hefty reward.

At first, some frantic and beleaguered Stark men had thought to arrest Sandor Clegane, but Grey Wind had licked the blood off his hand and that was the end of that. Before the maesters had dragged the king away for surgery, he'd made oaths and promises to any gods who would listen that the Hound would not regret his courage. Gold, land, women, whatever he wanted. "A drink," he'd growled, and Robb had laughed.

Days had passed. Catelyn's waking hours grew longer, her body stronger, and a sudden restless spirit had taken her, so she decided to get out of bed and brave the castle on one crutch. Arya held her hand as they walked, chattering endlessly about hot pies and something called Weasel. She passed a hall where they had fought, briefly, during the flight from Lord Walder's hall and with Ryman Frey's garrison at their heels. The bodies were all gone and the blood had been mopped up, but the torn carpets and tapestries had yet to be replaced. She found herself unconsciously walking down that same path towards the gate, the place where Arya had dropped the bar and saved all their lives.

She stopped when she saw the doors. _They missed some of the blood._ Though the floors were clean, red stains from Ryman Frey's throat still spattered the bare stone walls. Grey Wind had shredded so much of his flesh as to expose his spine, and the act had sprayed everyone around them in a shower of blood. The sight and terrible noise had scattered the Frey men in the castle and finally won the battle. _That, and the guns_.

Robb had used the word, but couldn't explain what it meant. These guns were a type of magic anyone could hold in their hand and use with a thought and a squeeze of the first finger. Guns would work for anybody, from the greatest lord to the dishonorable thief, so Robb warned his followers to guard them jealously, lest Tywin Lannister get his hands on a few and turn their power against the Starks. They were limited in use and too weak to destroy a whole army, but an assassin in the right place could kill any man he wanted with a single burst of power. No armor could stand against it, no knight of any skill could parry it, and a lithe acrobat of the finest caliber could not avoid it. _The Old Gods are generous._

Catelyn thought of the gore behind Walder Frey's head, and her wrist and forearm ached all over again. All great power has a cost, she knew, and this one takes it out of the bearer's body. Her ears still rang from terrible, deafening noise, worsened by the close stone walls of the reception chamber, damaging enough that she needed to look Arya in the face to properly understand what she was trying to say. When she looked down to her daughter, Arya was looking up at her and frowning, and tears were forming in both of their eyes.

"The Godswood," Catelyn managed, groaning.

"But they don't even have a real tree here," Arya whined.

Arya helped her limp to a small, sparse patch of enclosed woodlands near the outer curtain wall, a sad thing built around one strong oak and a few smaller, sick-looking trees. A long wooden bench with a high back sat in the middle, so Catelyn strained to reach it and plop down near the edge.

"What's she like?" Arya said, as she hopped up next to her.

Catelyn raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Robb's wife!" she said, beaming. "Everybody says he got married, and that's why all this happened. What's his wife like?"

Catelyn realized that Arya had been talking about the war and all the rumors surrounding it, but she'd let the words run right out of her head. _I need to pay my daughter more attention. Every moment is precious._ "She's his age, dignified, comes from an old family," she said. "And pretty, of course."

"Yeah, but what is she _like_?" Arya said. "Does she ride horses or what?"

Catelyn smiled. "Yes, and she tends to the wounded. That's how they met."

"She should be a maester then," Arya said, all wide-eyed and innocent. "Do they let girls be maesters?"

 _Oh, to be young again._ "No, but women can study the arts if they so choose. Robb was hurt in a battle and she helped the maesters treat him."

"They fell in love?"

 _It was a bit more untoward than that, but she can learn of such things in her own time._ "That's right, and they got married." Catelyn sighed, thinking back to the pang of fear and outrage she'd felt when she'd met Jeyne. Nothing against the girl, of course, but Robb had broken a marriage pact with a key ally in a time of desperate war, and he'd done it in a moment of weakness without thinking or consulting anyone. _He almost threw it all away._

"Does this help us or hurt us?" Arya said, looking up wistfully at the clear sky.

Catelyn sat up with a start, and a sharp pain shot through her wounds. "What do you mean, help us or hurt us?"

"All these people died," Arya said, "but so did all the traitors. Well, most of them, but we'll hunt the rest down and kill them too. If they are traitors now they always were going to be, right? So it's better that we got it overwith now instead of having them turn on us when we're weak, like Theon did in Winterfell. And now we have a new castle, and pretty soon another one when Robb takes the Dreadfort."

Arya said every word with the matter-of-fact tone of a child describing the everyday, unremarkable life events that blur together over time. She might as well have been talking about taking a walk around the glass gardens of Winterfell or sitting down for her sewing lessons.

"What's wrong?" Arya said, looking up at her mother.

Catelyn realized she was frowning. "Nothing. You shouldn't talk of such problems, Arya. You're too young for the horrors of the world."

"But the Mountain was torturing people in Harrenhaal," she insisted. "People from the _Riverlands_. The Riverlands is part of the North now, isn't it? And we're Starks and Tullys at the same time, so it's _our_ people. We have to kill him now, and everyone knows the only person who can fight the Mountain is the Hound, and he's on our side!"

 _The gods have mercy on this one._ Could she ever have a normal life? She would need to be married to a Mormont, Catelyn decided, and live her days on Bear Island. Did Lady Maege have any eligible grandsons? Or a cousin, even. She would never fit in anywhere else. Sansa would need to marry a Riverlander, and if Jeyne was a fertile as Catelyn hoped, Robb's children would be betrothed by the time they escaped the womb.

But she was dealing in dreams, a fantasy based on an uncertain future, and her daughter first had to survive the war with her mind intact. "You've seen some terrible things," Catelyn said, "but those times are over, now. You're safe here, and soon you'll be in Riverrun with Jeyne, and if the gods are kind, her children. You can resume your lessons and grow up safe until it's time to marry. By then the war will be over, and you can start anew."

"My dancing lessons?" she said, then frowned. "But I lost Needle."

 _What is she talking about?_ "You can learn to dance if you want, of course you can, and needles are trivial things. Your sewing teacher will give you more."

Arya huffed and rolled her eyes. "Not needles, _Needle_. Jon gave it to me and I lost it. And they killed Syrio and I couldn't do anything about, and then they killed Yoren and I still couldn't do anything about it because I never finished my lessons." Her eyes suddenly brightened. "Can we visit Jon on the Wall when we take back Winterfell and kill Theon and all the Ironborn? Maybe Jon can have the smith at Castle Black make me a new sword."

It had taken ages to wrangle the information out of Arya, but Catelyn finally put the story together with enough pointed questions and a mountain of patience. Jon had given her a sword and Ned had hired an instructor to teach her the famous Braavosi style, meant for fighters smaller and quicker than Westerosi plated knights. _You were so thoughtful._ Catelyn struggled for her own answer to the problem, and though her upbringing taught her to cloister Arya away from the ugliness of the world, she knew from the stories of Ned's sister Lyanna that when a wolf girl gets a taste of that kind of life, she can never go back.

So she made the tough decision and decided to go find Robb. Ned had trusted Arya with a sword, so Catelyn would trust her with the truth. They hobbled together up a spiral flight of stairs to a series of cramped quarters that Robb's men had converted into a war room. The larger halls, including those designed for council meetings, were more useful as medical wards for the vast numbers of wounded Northmen and Riverlanders. News of Roose Bolton's death had spread through his camp like wildfire before the fighting had ended, which had sent the attackers breaking into a panic and fleeing into the forests. _A lord without an heir is weak as a midsummer snowman._ In truth, the enemy had a huge advantage in numbers and arms, and were it not for fear of sorcery and damnation, the Bolton and Frey alliance would almost certainly have won.

Grief gripped her when she saw the reduced and bloodied council, sulking as they were around a small table that plainly had been dragged inside somebody's quarters and stacked with overlapping maps and charts. Greatjon Umber and his bruised head dominated the room, and Wendel Manderly filled up most of the rest of the space. Jeyne's brother Raynald Westerling was still bedridden from his more serious injuries and thus absent, while Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister squeezed into a corner next to her son.

Robb sat shirtless and wrapped in stained bandages with the Frey maester poking at him and ordering him back to bed. The shriveled little man was wrinkled and smelly with a similar disposition to the late Walder Frey, but he took his oaths to the Citadel seriously and knew his business. The Twins was theirs by right of conquest, and so he began tending to his new lords without a word of complaint. _Did Luwin do the same for the Ironborn before they killed him?_

"Mother," Robb said, then started to stand. He groaned with the effort, and the maester gently pushed him back down. "Are you well? Should you be up here?"

"I should ask the same of you," Catelyn said, grimacing.

Arya quickly found her a seat and walked over to her brother. Robb's face was pale and drawn with worry and stress, but when Arya embraced him he smiled broadly and sighed.

"My lady," said Patrek Mallister, her father's bannerman. _My brother_ _'s, now._ He bowed briefly and Marq Piper did the same.

"It was your girl here who lifted the bar on the gates, wasn't it?" Jon Umber bellowed. Every word he said was a bellow, no matter the context. "Nasty thing, that was, setting a bar on the outside. How they pulled it off with nobody noticing, I have no idea, but they would have cornered us and killed us there had it not been for your girl and the wolf."

"And the Hound," Arya corrected him.

He grinned, then slapped his belly and laughed. "The wolf and the Hound, you've got that right."

Jon's son had died in the fighting, but he would grieve privately. Men of his bearing did not show their emotions openly, and certainly not with women and liege lords around to see it. When the slaughter started, the Old Gods had waited until the absolute last second to step in, and so while Robb and some others lived, many young and energetic heirs had perished in the early moments of the fighting, from Smalljon Umber to Dacey Mormont and more. _Power requires sacrifice._

Wendel Manderly coughed and pointed to the table. He had lost a few pounds on campaign and a few more in the days since the battle, barely surviving a crossbow bolt to the mouth. _Walder Frey was even cheap on his hired killers._ His face and neck were wrapped in clean bandages, and he grimaced as he struggled to say something, then gave up and sat back against the wall, sagging in defeat.

"What Ser Wendel means to say," the Greatjon said, "is that we have work to do in securing the Riverlands. Tywin Lannister is already on the march. If you are healthy, Lady Catelyn, we would value your say."

"Of course," Catelyn said in surprise. _Edmure should be handling this._ "Where is my brother?"

"With his lady wife," Robb said. "I've freed her, and she is seeing to burying her family."

Catelyn frowned. "She should be in chains with the other survivors." Merrett and Petyr Frey, the useless drunks, had missed the fighting from their vantage point under the tables, ineffective fighters for lack of a way to see through their own eyelids. Ser Leslyn Haigh had been wounded and survived, but the rest of them had fallen to Robb and Catelyn's terrible fury and the power of the Old Gods. Two Freys commanding the attack on the camps had been killed by the Hound, while more still escaped the Twins and fled south. Ser Edwyn, the heir apparent, was among the fugitives.

"Lady Roslin had no consent in the attack," Robb said. "She swore as much to me, and Edmure believes her. We need Freys on our side, at any rate."

"She was terrified at the feast," Catelyn said, thinking back to the frightened girl. _I guess it wasn_ _'t wedding jitters after all._ "Even worse at the bedding."

Robb nodded and winced as Arya tugged on his bandages. He gave her a light smack on the back of her hand, then laughed. "Stop that, it hurts."

"Are you meaning to subjugate the Freys, or take their titles for the Crown?" _We should eradicate them._ "And where is your squire?"

Robb's eyebrows darted up in surprise. "Olyvar, you mean? They told us he was away on duty, but I doubt it. They couldn't trust him. Not all of the Freys were involved, you know."

Catelyn glanced to her brother's bannermen, but they couldn't meet her eyes. _They want vengeance all the same. Robb is being too diplomatic._ "The Twins should stay ours," she said. "We need it for the war, and the Freys broke guest right. They've lost their claim by any law you can cite."

"Most of them did," Robb said, "but not all. We'll go through the list and free the ones we can. Olyvar will be one of them."

Robb glanced nervously at the other side of the room. Jon Umber seethed at the news, glaring at his king. A faint growl escaped his throat, but he kept his mouth shut, broke the gaze and looked down to the maps on the table. _Another Northman wants blood for his son. I remember how this ends._

"We _must_ disinherit them," Catelyn persisted, "even if we spare their lives. You are the King of the Trident, and my brother is your bannerman. He will support you. The survivors will have no legal claim. You can gift the loyal ones a keep somewhere to start new families, but we must hold the Twins."

Relief seemed to flood the Riverlanders in the room when Robb paused to think it over. Plainly, he was going about his rights as a king in too cautious a manner. _The law is what you make it._ Arya looked back and forth between them with a flat expression, and Catelyn wondered just how much of this was over her head.

"So when are we going north?" Arya said, breaking the silence.

Robb looked down to her and stroked her head, much as Jon had always done. "Soon. I promise. But we can't go until we defeat the enemy down here. Riverrun is still under siege, as are some of the other southern castles. We can't go north until Tywin Lannister's army is broken."

"But we will," Jon Umber said. "You believe that, child. I've sent instructions to my uncle to get another army ready and meet us halfway. We'll throw the bastards out of Moat Cailin, Winterfell, and everywhere else. The lions may be at our door," he said, touching a bulge at his hip, "but the Old Gods are with us. Never fear, Lady Stark."

Arya frowned and pulled away from Robb, reaching for the gun hidden under the Greatjon's clothing, but he pulled away just in time. Catelyn snatched her hand. "Not for the young, child. Not a-"

" _Why_ not?" Arya protested. "It's for us, isn't it? Like our wolves, the Old Gods gave it to us, _all_ of us, and I'm a Stark, so why not?"

"Because-" Catelyn stopped, then frowned. _Am I seriously considering this?_ She thought of Arya's terrible trials and shook away the thought of training her to use a weapon. _Ludicrous. The guns aren_ _'t the same as her Needle._

"What Mother means," Robb said, "is that the guns are not given freely, but take a toll on the body and the soul. The stronger the power, the more of you it demands. You have already done enough."

"What do they look like?" Arya said.

Robb and Catelyn exchanged a glance. "She deserves to see," her son said quietly.

The others in the room kept their distance so as to not interfere with family business. All except the Greatjon, who laughed, lifted his shirt, whipped a bulky piece of iron out of its sheath, then slapped it down on the table.

"Feel how heavy it is," he said, grinning.

Arya did as she was asked. Her tiny hands could barely wrap around the iron, which was similar in shape to the others, except that its makers had added a rotating chamber near the trigger.

"Heavier than a sword!" she said, eyes wide.

Lord Jon rubbed his wrist unconsciously with his maimed hand. "Firing that monster is like getting kicked by a horse. I wish I had the fingers to use one of the long guns."

Robb smiled and Arya's eyes went wide. "Long guns?"

So, the meeting turned into a gun show. Robb had locked away the guns in several well-guarded closets near the ad-hoc council chamber, with only the most trusted men knowing how many guns they had and where they were kept. He'd stashed even more under his own bed, it turned out, and kept the one he'd used to kill Walder Frey at his hip at all times. Catelyn couldn't believe the variety of designs and functions, from small hand-held firearms to rifles as long as Ice. Arya picked out one just a tiny bit bigger than her palm, but Catelyn had to snatch it from her before she fired it off in the crowded room. _They_ _'ve even made some sized for children_. Most of the guns that Robb designated as the best weapons of war were medium length, with two grips and a longer lasting store of magic than the others. They were also short enough to be easily concealed underneath a cloak, rapid-firing, and deadly accurate at a range that longbowmen would struggle to reach. _A balance of power and cost._ Nearly all of them were some shade of brown, black, or steel-gray, though a few were spotted with green.

Arya begged and whined to go out to the Godswood and shoot at the heart tree, but Catelyn shot her down every time. "Not even one of the little ones?" she said, chewing on her lip. "I'll be careful. I promise."

"When you're older," Catelyn said. "When the danger has passed. Until then, we need every last spell to defeat our enemies. Don't you agree?"

Her daughter's mouth moved as if she meant to argue, but the words didn't come. She sighed and nodded, mumbled some assent and backed away from the table. Everyone stared in silence at the pile of godly weapons for a moment, then Robb broke the silence with a word. "The Freys."

"The little wolf pup had us talking of sweeter subjects," Lord Jon said. "We've yet to make a decision on that end. Most of 'em should hang, I say, except maybe Lady Roslin until she births a boy."

Marq Piper, forgotten in the corner of the tiny room, spoke up. "Trials. We'll figure guilt and innocence by trial, and the king will mete out justice, by rope or a headsman."

Robb glared at him. "Any heads that roll will be by my own hand." He winced and pressed said hand against his ribs, where the bandages were staining once again with blood. "Stubborn wound. Where's the maester?"

Somebody found the little man and dragged him back inside. As he worked, the others concerned themselves with smaller matters, whilst Robb suffered in silence. He was still lost in thought, probably turning over the Frey problem in his head and imagining what would happen if he had to kill his own squire.

Catelyn looked to him. "I don't want to see little Olyvar dead either," she said, "nor my brother's wife, if she tells the truth. But they _must_ lose their claim. All the world will know what happens when guest right is broken, but we can spare the lives of anyone who proves their innocence." She would prefer the marriage be annulled so Edmure could pick a better wife, but she decided to let that one go. _It_ _'s not my business, anyway_.

"Trials at Riverrun," Robb said quietly, the maester still working at his skin. "After the Lannister host is crushed and the siege lifted, we'll bring the prisoners to Riverrun for public trial."

"In sight of the gods," Catelyn added.

He nodded. "Of course. They are Riverlanders and they will be judged in the Godswood, under the eyes of a real heart tree."

Once the maester finished his sutures and wrapped a fresh bandage, Robb resumed discussing battle tactics, a talk of lions, guns, and the shock of sorcery in the open air. _A talk for warriors._ Catelyn excused herself, took Arya by the hand and led her out of the small room and down the hall past rows and rows of sickrooms. She paused briefly at an open door near the end of the hall, through which Raynald Westerling lay on a cot, covered in a similar matter and snoring quietly. _Arya can meet her new brother later._

She turned to leave, but running footsteps drew her attention and she halted, leaning on Arya for support. Maester Vyman stumbled toward her, one hand clutching his robes to keep them from tripping his feet, the other packing a pile of freshly cleaned linens under one arm.

"Lady Catelyn!" he said, panting and drawing heavy breaths. _He is getting so old._ His beard was haggard from a week's labor, and crusty sweat stains gathered around his collar. She waited patiently for him to catch his breath. He was Riverrun's maester, and she'd known him since she was a girl, back when he was a young man. Now, he looked as exhausted as she felt. _Gone to gray in so short a time. I will be next._

Vyman was never a weak man, but he'd slipped out of Riverrun just before the Lannister host arrived to lay siege, then ridden night and day to reach the Twins and take over responsibility for the wounded. _I wish you had been here in time to work on me._ Catelyn had thought to ask him for a second look at Arya after all her trials, but her daughter was already so sick of old men prodding her that she'd refused and threatened to run away. Instead, he'd immediately gone to work on triage, which meant his time and energy were needed with the absolute worst cases. _Including poor Raynald_.

Finally, he rubbed his neck and straightened his back, stretching his torso and sighing with the effort. "My apologies, Lady Catelyn." He smiled at Arya, warm and genuine despite the obvious strain on his features. "And to you, Princess. I am short on useful help these days, with the war and all. These Freys are not as eager to lend a hand as your Tullys."

Catelyn frowned, thinking of all the river lords gathered in the castle, lazing about while poor Vyman slept little and ate less. "I'll have to remedy that. I know of many idle hands in need of work."

His face lifted. "Oh. We'll deal with that later, but for now, I need you to accompany me inside the infirmary, if it pleases you." He waved to the open door, beyond which Arya's new brother slept. "Raynald Westerling awoke some hours ago, and he demanded to see you immediately. I told him again and again that you were indisposed, but every time he opened his eyes, he repeated himself as if he did not remember the moment before." Vyman harrumphed, as if put upon by the inconvenience. "But you are up now, so let's see what terrible secret he's been keeping in his heart."

Catelyn glanced inside. "He is sleeping again. I'm sure whatever-"

"The man said to wake him when you were on your feet," Vyman said. "He was quite insistent!" The old maester's face darkened again. "I'm afraid he has little time left."

"Help the maester," Catelyn said to Arya, giving her a light push on the shoulders. She took the pile of linens out of his arms and dashed inside, while Vyman pulled Catelyn's arm around his shoulders. The two of them shuffled along like a pair of cripples through the door and past rows of sickbeds, some full, some empty, all stained with blood. Vyman was never a weak man, but he'd slipped out of Riverrun just before the Lannister host arrived to lay siege, and he'd ridden night and day to reach the Twins and take over the care of the wounded. _I wish you had been here in time to work on me._ Catelyn had thought to ask him for a second look at Arya after all her trials, but her daughter was already so sick of old men prodding her that she refused and threatened to run away again. Instead, he'd gotten to work immediately on triage, which meant his time and energy were needed with the absolute worst cases. _Including poor Raynald_.

Vyman's ward was a modest dining hall that, like half the rooms in the Twins, had all the furnishings ripped out to make room for sickbeds, and most of the men who were given a space in this particular room were not expected to ever leave on their own feet. Raynald had a cot in the middle, no different than any of the other dozen strewn about, despite his relation to the King. _He deserves a real bed. I_ _'ll give him mine._ This was the man who'd freed Grey Wind, and the wolf had almost certainly saved her life, Robb's, and the whole cause of the North. Vyman found a stool and set it down next to his bed, and Catelyn took up the dying man's hand as she sat.

His skin was cold and clammy, his hand bone white as the rest of him, and his cheeks sunken by weeks spent unable to eat. His torso was wrapped from neck to thigh in fresh, relatively clean bandages, though bits of brown and yellow had already begun to soak through near the waist. His eyes fluttered open and he gaped insensate at the ceiling. Catelyn wiped his sweat-matted hair back from his forehead, his hand tightened around hers, and he slowly turned his head to meet her eyes.

"Lady-" he croaked. "L-"

"Mother," she said, smiling. Tears filled the corners of her eyes. "We're family now."

He nodded slowly and took a labored breath. _Those bandages are strangling him._ He swallowed and worked his mouth and tongue as if trying to remember how the job was done. "My mother-"

"Yes," she said, stroking his cheek. "Yes, I'm here."

"No," he said. His eyes suddenly focused and he leaned forward, as if trying to sit up, but he fell back exhausted. "Not you, my mother. Read my letters, please, read them."

"Of course I'll read you a letter from your mother. I can write one to her if you want, too." Catelyn looked around for Maester Vyman, but Arya had drafted herself as a nurse, and they were busy with other needy patients across the room. "I'll get someone to send a raven to Riverrun immediately. Whatever you want to say, just tell me."

He shook his head and grit his teeth. A sudden burst of strength filled his hand and he gripped hers like iron. "No, not that. Find her letters." He let go of her hand, then felt around blindly under his cot for a satchel, inches out of his reach. "Quickly. While I'm awake. Don't let him give me more milk of the poppy, please."

 _What is he talking about?_ She nodded quickly and reached down for the satchel, pulling out a mix of field rations, a whetstone, and the usual items carried by a young knight off to war. In one compartment was an ink bottle, a felt pen, and a pile of raven-sized letters, a dozen at least.

"Which one?" Catelyn said, pulling the twisted and knotted parchments apart and unfurling them on her knee. "Should I just start from the top?"

He grunted and shook his head, then snatched the pile from her. He held them in front of his face, tossing them aside one by one until he had two left in his hand, then gave them back.

Catelyn took the letters and read the first one, penned by a woman's hand. "Raynald, promise me you'll come back to protect your sister at Riverrun. She is alone and frightened and needs family around her."

"She said the same thing before we left Riverrun," he said, relaxing and sighing. Maester Vyman suddenly appeared over him with a glass brimming with white liquid, but the young knight tensed again and held up his palm in defense.

"He said no more milk of the poppy," Catelyn snapped.

"But-"

"And now _I_ _'m_ saying it." She glared at him. "I will call you over if he needs your assistance."

Vyman looked down at the stain spreading through the bandages and sighed, then nodded and stepped away. She put the first letter aside, and read the second one.

"Do not stay at the Twins for the wedding," Catelyn read out loud. "Your father commands it. Come back to Riverrun with your family."

"I ignored them," he said. "I wanted to be with the king."

 _What is he trying to tell me?_ "Why did your father want you to stay back?"

He shook his head. "He didn't know. She did. She had something to do with it, I can feel it. The wedding. The battle. The slaughter." He took a long breath. "Didn't trust the maesters, but this one says he is yours. So I trusted him."

Catelyn gripped his hand again. "The king has to know. I'll bring him here."

"No!" he said, a dying fire blazing in his eyes. "No, we can't tell him. He has a war to fight. He's too…" he sighed, searching for words. "Merciful. He will ask her, and she will lie, and he will believe. This is…"

"Yes?"

"Our burden." A sad, pale smile touched his cheeks. "Yours."

His last and longest speech finished, air escaped his lungs and let his body deflate. Catelyn leaned in close, to whisper in his ears. "Your mother. You are certain?"

He closed his eyes and nodded. His smile broadened, and all the pain vanished from his face. _He has unburdened himself, and now he makes the decision to leave this world._

"Stay with me," Catelyn pleaded. "Stay until your brothers return. Rollam, Robb, both of them. One of your new sisters is here, too, and the other one will come from King's Landing soon." Her vision blurred and she choked back a sob. "They all want to meet you, Raynald. They all want to meet the hero who saved their kingdom. You have to be here to meet them."

If Ser Raynald Westerling heard her, he gave no sign. He was gone.

Maester Vyman shoved past her and reached down to feel for his heartbeat at the neck and wrist, then looked up at her wide-eyed and gaping. He turned back to the body and sniffed the bandages, then recoiled. "Frey bastards," he grumbled. "I've no faith in them, not in their skills nor their motives. Botched the dressing, I bet, let it go corrupt for no good reason. I tried to tell the king, but he wouldn't have any of it. Said we have to show them _trust._ " Vyman spat. "I trust them like I trust the snake to hold its venom. Which is to say, very little."

"They got the arrows out of him," Catelyn said, sniffling. "Gave him a chance."

The old man stood and reached for her as if to offer a consoling shoulder, but hesitated. She grabbed his arms and pulled him into an embrace. _I am still the girl you_ _'ve known for all these years, my friend._ She wept softly into his robes for a moment, then pulled away and wiped the tears from her eyes. He nodded and, without a word, looked around for some other task with which to busy himself. He stooped over another man's prone form and waved her off without looking back. He didn't want her to see him crying. _Men are all the same._

When she looked down, Arya was staring at Ser Raynald's body, unblinking and dry-eyed. "I fought with him outside," she said quietly. "He was so brave."

"Arya-" Catelyn started, but she couldn't find any more words.

Her daughter looked up to her and raised two bloody palms. A toothy grin split her face. "Did you know stitching is just like sewing, but way better? Maester Vyman says my small hands are a big help. I'm going to stay here most of the time until the war is over, okay? Or until we've saved everyone."

Vyman had overheard them, and he looked over his shoulder, frowning. "That's for your mother to decide, little one."

"You want to learn the art of medicine?" Catelyn said.

Arya nodded enthusiastically. "Like my new sister! We can ride together and help the men after the battles. I'll show her how to use a sword."

 _Oh, gods._ "Step outside for just a moment," Catelyn said, forcing a smile. "Wash your hands first. I want to show you something."

While Arya did as she was told, Catelyn found the letters again and secured them in her dress pocket. "Don't worry about the burial," she said to Vyman as she left. "I'll find the help somewhere. Promise me you'll get some rest."

Vyman mumbled something and waved her off without looking. Arya, her hands moderately clean, walked with her out of the sickroom and to a nearby window, one that offered a wide view of the grounds immediately outside the south wall of the castle. Mother and daughter looked together over the carnage and waste left behind from the battle. Even days later, laborers were still tearing down tents and wheeling bodies in carts to either be tossed into a mass grave, burnt on a pyre, or placed in individual plots, all depending on what family they belonged to and what side they died for.

"There's the Hound!" Arya said, pointing to a man pulling a cart.

They were only on the second floor, but even if they'd been looking from a tower a hundred stories high, Catelyn would likely have been able to pick him out of the crowd. Sandor Clegane stood a head higher than any man of Robb's aside from the Greatjon, and he probably outweighed Wendel Manderly in his armor. When Catelyn had first turned to see the enormous knight and her tiny daughter standing there in peasant rags and their enemies' blood, she'd identified him from the distinctive burn scars alone. He stooped to yank the cart loose from a pit in the mud and, as he carted off a few bodies in the direction of the enormous grave, he glanced up at the window and saw them staring.

Arya waved, grinning. He grunted and turned back to his work. "He killed so many Freys himself in the beginning," she said, proudly. "And they were distracted because I knifed one of them in the neck, so I helped."

 _The gods spare this girl any more of our worldly corruption._ "We're going to have another battle here, soon," she said, "and it will be much worse than the last one."

Arya rolled her eyes. "I _know_ that. It's all anyone can talk about."

"Hush," Catelyn said, patting her daughter's cheek. "Listen. The lions are coming, more than we can ever count. They say Tywin Lannister will be there. They mean to hold us here through the winter, while our bannermen in the North and the Riverlands suffer. We aren't going to let them do that, are we?"

Arya shook her head.

Catelyn pulled in her close. "We're going to meet them on the field, and it'll be worse than what you see outside, worse than ever, worse than everything you've been through. Worse than Harrenhal." She paused. _Am I so sure?_ "But it will be the power of the Old Gods at work, your father's gods, _your_ gods, and though it will not be the end of our struggle, it will be the beginning of theirs. Our enemies will die in droves on that day, and on the next, and again and again until the voice of the gods have finally brought them to heel. Are you sure this is a world you want to be part of?"

"I'm sure," Arya said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Catelyn's heart soared with the oddest sort of pride. _This is right. For some reason, this is right._ "So be it."

"So, you won't make me stay in the castle for the battle?" Arya said, pleading up at her mother.

"No, I won't. We'll keep our distance, but I won't stop you from watching." _Is this what the Old Gods want? Or Ned?_

"And we still need to rescue Sansa," she said, her face set in determination. "I can go then, too?"

"We'll see." She buried her daughter's face in her dress. "We'll see."


	7. Tyrion II

TYRION

Sansa walked out of her room with handmaids at her heels, and she was beautiful.

Tyrion practically leapt out of his shoes in surprise. She wore a demure winter-gray gown closed from neck to toe, appropriate for her age, and her thick auburn hair was long and loose in the northern style. _Except for those Mormont women. Hair gets in the way when they fight._ He had originally handed her a Lannister dress slashed at the chest, but she was still a maid and proud to show it. _And still a Stark._

She wore only minimal jewelry, including a simple gold chain around her neck meant to mirror Tyrion's, plus a gold band on her marriage finger set with white chalcedony. Her skin was pale as snow and her eyes as blue and fierce as the rivers running through the land of her Tully ancestors. She had gotten so _tall_ , a half a head taller than Shae, and somehow Tyrion had hardly noticed it happen.

Sansa smiled. "Shall we go?"

"To be honest, I'd rather stay." Tyrion cleared his throat and turned around, extending an arm high enough for her to reach down and take it. "But such are the labors of the wealthy and powerful. Weddings to attend, tyrants to appease."

They walked together out of the Hand's quarters and down the long spiral stairs to the ground floor. His head swam as they walked, but now for a different reason: dread. _Cersei will not be happy._ With Starks running around alive and unmurdered in the Riverlands, the wise thing to do would be to hide her looks underneath a Lannister disguise. _At least Joffrey won_ _'t notice._

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater led the procession from the Red Keep to Visenya's Hill and the Great Sept of Baelor, where hundreds of onlookers already stood waiting. Tyrion hadn't seen much of Bronn lately, as he'd put him on duty guarding Sansa while the Hand went about his business. His legs ached from the long walk, but maybe less than they would have a month prior. _The work has been good for me._ If Sansa was at all bothered, she didn't show any outward response besides her usual detached resilience, the same face she showed to all the forces in the world that seemed to assemble against her.

They passed a throng of gawkers, all eyes on the tall and elegant folk in their finery, and reached a much larger crowd that had assembled on the plaza directly in front of the Great Sept. Tyrion played the hideous husband to his beautiful bride, but for once, the gaping maws and vacant looks pointed at Sansa's fine features instead of his more ravaged ones. More people were streaming in from all directions, and the crowd would likely keep growing long after everyone else had gone home. The Tyrells had promised them the crumbs, and a royal feast could satisfy an army for a day. _Somebody should tell them the food is being served back at the castle._

"I'll try to get us a seat as far from Joffrey as possible," Tyrion whispered, as they neared the doors.

Sansa didn't respond for a second, then looked down to him. "Hmm?"

She wasn't acting a fool to irritate him anymore. Not like on that abysmal wedding day. "We're supposed to sit up front near the king and his new queen, but I thought we might trade with someone else. No shortage of folks looking to curry favor."

"Whatever you wish," she said. Her voice was airy and indifferent, and she looked forward at nothing in particular with a blank expression.

 _At least she_ _'s nice to me in private._ Sansa had opened up a lot more recently, but was it in earnest, or was she just playing at something? She had asked him to turn on his family and sail off into retirement, or maybe join one of the various pretenders prancing about Westeros as a turncoat advisor. Robb Stark was the obvious choice, if he went anywhere. He had a real chance at winning now, whether or not Tyrion's father would ever admit it to anyone, and Sansa would speak up for him when he met his new king. _I could always live in the Riverlands._

Even though the girl hadn't said a word to him on the walk, she was still getting under his skin. Tyrion wondered if he were kidding himself, but the Lannisters did seem like a sinking ship, and he thought it wise to get a head start on the rats. The Starks would be furious about the other daughter, Arya, who was no doubt dead in some alley somewhere, but Tyrion was nowhere near King's Landing at the time and deserved no blame for it. _Isn_ _'t saving one daughter worth something?_

He sighed and shook his head to dispense himself of the thought. Sansa glanced down at him for a brief second, but looked forward again and said nothing, and they walked together through the doors of the Great Sept.

It was more well-lit than usual, though he had trouble remembering the last time he'd actually set foot inside, and the layout seemed different from what he could recall. _Is it the lighting or the sobriety?_ If Tyrion squinted he could make out every individual attendee stretching from wall to wall, row to row from the pulpit all the way to the doors. The front pews were reserved for important persons such as himself and were mostly empty. _The better the breeding, the later the arrival._ The Tyrells would be the very last through the doors, escorting Margaery to the front to meet her king.

Of course, the front rows were the last place Tyrion wanted to be, so he looked around for a good sycophant to trade with and came up empty. He spotted Martells, including the dashing Prince Oberyn and his Dornish paramour, but a noted and open enemy of the family was not a good choice. Harys Swyft would have been a fine option, but the doddering old man was already seated up front thanks to his place as the King's great grand uncle by marriage, or something along those lines. He spotted Edgertons, Rykkers, the fat pregnant Stokeworth girl and her sister, and even a Massey, though one of Lord Massey's sons had turned traitor and joined Stannis Baratheon before the Blackwater. No, they wouldn't do. _Cersei will notice the slight._

"I think we're stuck in the visible section," Tyrion finally said.

Sansa looked down at him and betrayed a brief flash of disappointment in her eyes, then blinked it away as fast as it had come. "As you wish."

 _Play the dutiful wife until noone else is around to hear._ "It will be over quickly enough, I promise. We can get a distant table at the feast and drink all the way through the bedding."

 _And then what?_ Tyrion was Hand of the King. It's not like he could whisk her away to safety, not unless he did exactly what she asked and crossed that line forever. He had endless labors ahead of him in King's Landing, and unless he were to pass his obligations to some worthy family member, he would always be in arm's reach of the boy king and his twisted pleasure. One day when his soon-to-be Tyrell wife was away, indisposed, or with child, Joffrey may knock on their marital door and make certain demands of Sansa that Tyrion would be powerless to defend against. Another mad king had done something along those lines to his Hand, or so the rumormongers insisted. Perhaps it was a generational Lannister curse.

"We're holding up the line," Sansa said softly.

Tyrion snapped out of his gloom and glanced over his shoulder. A throng of not-so-patient guests, his uncle Kevan included, had filtered in behind them and were waiting patiently for the crippled dwarf and his towering bride to move aside. A sick, selfish part of him wished that Sansa would have drawn the heat instead, but these were proper highborn folks, and a beautiful and well-dressed girl was practically passe compared to his scarred nose, twisted little limbs and mismatched eyes. _The people outside focus on the beauty. Inside, the beast._ His cheeks reddened and his body ached all over again like he was still climbing Visenya's hill, or marching out of the Vale, or even running across the bridge of ships on the Blackwater weighed down by armor and his axe. Sansa made the first move and tugged him along by the shoulder, and with a stumble and grunt, he followed behind her as a confused child attached to his frustrated mother.

Sansa picked their seat for them. They were stuck with the front row but, blessedly, she found an open spot about halfway down and on the complete opposite side of the room from the place reserved for Cersei. Jaime was meant to sit at her side, but Tyrion doubted he would make it in time to see his son's wedding. _Nephew_ _'s wedding. I've got to be careful with that or I'll blurt it out to the wrong people._ Jaime had apparently been in some state of injury since his imprisonment and was unable to ride for King's Landing at speed, so Kevan had left him behind with a Bolton man of all people and headed straight for the city on a messenger's horse and with the wind blowing through his hair. _To be so free again. Perhaps I could ride the Dothraki Sea._

Sansa sat to his right, and Kevan to hers. A wide space opened up to Tyrion's left and he wondered which Tyrell would deign to sit next to the Imp. The crowd murmured amongst themselves, Kevan and Sansa exchanged quiet pleasantries, and Tyrion went over his plans for the city in his head and hoped the whole ordeal would conclude itself with as little involvement or attention from him as possible. _Someone nudge me when it_ _'s time to clap_. Shattered gates, food, gold cloaks, overflowing sewage, and other delightful problems awaited his attention, once the brief break for ceremony was overwith. Finally, the crowd drew silent, and when Tyrion looked over his shoulder, Joffrey and Cersei were entering the Sept.

Little Tommen trailed behind them, jaw slack and looking around the room at all the gathered strangers. Cersei clearly wanted to make a slow, measured a walk to the pulpit, but Joffrey hurried her along and tugged at his collar, oblivious to the basic concept of regal poise. The gold-threaded silks were stretched tight across his chest, and his wrists and neck were constricted more still. _Has noone updated his matrimonial measurements since the last betrothal?_ The stag crown sagged across his forehead, and Cersei shuffled her feet under her deep red gown to keep up, tugging Tommen along behind. Her dress was open at the chest to contrast with chaste Sansa and probably to compete for attention with the younger, prettier queen. _Good luck with that_. Even if she was still in her prime, Cersei would have been only the second most beautiful woman in the room, and when the Tyrells finally entered the Sept, she was reduced to third.

Margaery's dress was designed by an architect and sewn by angels. Tyrion lacked a head for fashion, preferring to study what women _weren_ _'t_ wearing, but a master had assembled that mess of silks, velvet, and the gods only know what else into something bizarre and awe-inspiring. _Will they put another one on her for the feast?_ It was high-shouldered and low-necked, draped at the wrists and flowing for yards behind her feet, and the way it had been wrapped and patterned confused the eye. _Imagine what it would look like if I was drunk._ Her hair was almost as complicated, braids pulled high and then dropping low down her back. At sixteen and as comely as any highborn lady was expected to be, Tyrion doubted she actually needed that kind of extravagance. _I bet she_ _'d look better in a shift._

Tyrion blushed and looked forward again. Sansa only paid her a short glance, then went back to studying her favorite square foot of the back wall of the Sept. Her eyes gave away nothing but her posture projected strength.

"What do you think about the dress?" Tyrion blurted out. _That_ _'s right, you bloody dwarf, choose a topic you know nothing about._

Sansa leaned down towards him. "It's ridiculous," she whispered, then gave him a tiny grin.

Warmth crept into his neck. "At least they measured it right. The king's liable to choke to death."

Sansa sniggered and pursed her lips, then turned to look at Joffrey as he waited for his bride. Cersei scowled at them, while Kevan followed her gaze with a curious expression. _Yes, I had a brief moment of levity with my lady wife. Get over it._

Margaery lingered by her family in the doorway for as long as she required the audience admire her, and when it was finally time to begin the long walk towards the rest of her life, some unseen conductor called for her cue. A string orchestra started up with one of the usual Westerosi wedding songs, but the players were situated outside the Sept and its thick walls muffled the sound. The music had been arranged for the benefit of the smallfolk, who rarely had a chance to hear such pleasure outside of taverns and the occasional mummer's play. _Forget about your woes for one minute and listen to some violins, and maybe you won_ _'t form a mob and tear your king limb from limb?_ Margarery Tyrell managed a slow walk up the aisle, timed to reached the pulpit exactly at the moment of the song's conclusion, and took her place next to her husband-to-be. Mace Tyrell, himself a living ornament, materialized out of the ether and stood over her shoulder, while the rest of the family shuffled past Tyrion to sit down next to him.

"Hello again, my friend," said the Queen of Thorns.

Tyrion turned to her to answer, but realized Olenna Tyrell was looking right over his flat head to his lady wife. Sansa stood up in surprise for just a moment, the collected herself and sat down. _What was that about?_ "Lady Olenna," she said, adding a slight bow. "Congratulations on the royal marriage. I know it will be a boon for your house."

Olenna smiled broadly. Tyrion wouldn't have thought her normally impressed by the platitudes and pleasantries that the highborn liked to toss back and forth while sharpening their knives, but apparently Sansa had hit on just the right shade of banality. "And congratulations on yours. May it be but the first."

Tyrion did not look back to Sansa to see her reaction, but he could _feel_ her flinch. _You bitch. Direct your insults at me, from now on._ "Lady Olenna has it right," Tyrion said, doing his worst to fake amusement at the insult. "I'll have long drank myself to death before you've been spoiled for your next husband." Some idiots gaped at him from the next row back, but he ignored them. _I need a drink._

"You've grown since I saw you," the bitch in question said, then looked down at Tyrion and smiled.

"I have some years of growth left in me still," Sansa said, "and by the time I am done, I'll be at a height with Sandor Clegane."

"With all his stolen beauty in your hands, no doubt," the Queen of Thorns said. "Funny subject, that, with him turning traitor and all. Your brother will be twice as tough to kill with the Hound's leash in his hands. You'd think one killer animal was enough for a man."

Sansa actually _gasped_ , audibly and everything, and Tyrion whipped his head around to see her reaction. Red flushed through her neck and ruined the effect of pale skin on gray, but what _really_ spoiled her stoicism was how she gaped openly at the news, wide-eyed and wider-jawed. The Hound had turned brigand, everyone knew, but Edwyn Frey had said he'd appeared at the wedding for one reason or another and joined in the slaughter. For lack of a good spy in the Stark household, his whereabouts afterwards had remained a mystery, but Varys had guessed that he'd offered his sword to the enemy, and apparently he was right.

"I've heard that rumor," Tyrion said as he looked back at Lady Olenna, "but noone knows for sure."

"Oh, we have our sources," she said, waving her gloved hand as if wartime intelligence were the simplest thing in the world. "He was doing some manual labor for the Tully survivors, but you can bet they'll want that brawn of his for more important work. When your father forces a pitched battle at Riverrun, he'll have the Mountain leading the vanguard, so we'll finally get to see which Clegane brother is the deadliest."

"Was he hurt?" Sansa said, her voice hardly above a whisper.

"Now, now," Olenna said, smiling a warm, wrinkly smile, "I wouldn't worry about your Hound, dear. He was healthy enough, last I heard, and he'll be just as healthy when the battle is over. I wouldn't bet a copper star on the big one. Too slow and thick-skulled, he is, and used to fighting farmers and fleeing children. The younger brother is the real terror."

The Hound was no stranger to butchering fleeing children, Tyrion knew, but otherwise she had the right idea. Sansa blushed and looked forward again, summoning her veil and trying as best she could to sink into the floor. Tyrion was grateful that this bit wasn't going to take as long as the feast, so she had little left to endure before they could take a carriage back home.

"It's starting," Lady Olenna whispered. "If only I'd been five minutes late."

For lack of an acknowledged father to hand over the cloaks, Cersei took the role for her son. Mace Tyrell did his part for his daughter, oaths were sworn, kisses were kissed and, just like that, the realm had a new Queen. _It_ _'s so anticlimactic._ Tyrion's own first marriage had been a lot more fun, but it was the honeymoon rather than the ceremony that filled his daydreams. _The nightmare stayed its hand until much later._ If he were ever subjected to a third marriage, he thought, he'd be happy with a boring wedding and non-existent honeymoon. _I_ _'ll take a tenth of the bliss and none of the violence, thank you._

With the changing of cloaks complete, Joffrey's odd stag-and-lion combination now hung from Margaery Tyrell's shoulders. When she turned to wave to the crowd, cheers rang from the back of the room, though the front rows only clapped modestly. Tommen pulled his hand free of Cersei's and clapped enthusiastically, beaming about court intrigues he could not possibly understand. _Along with most of the room, by my guess._ Lady Olenna snorted in derision and Kevan looked at them again, but still had nothing to say. _What do you want?_

Sansa did not clap either. Instead, she folded her hands into her lap and stared at her feet, struggling to keep her composure and mostly not succeeding. _How have I missed this?_ Since her father died, only two would-be protectors had looked at Sansa as anything but a prize to be won, and both of them were hideously deformed in one manner or another. _At least the Hound can see over her head._ The most absurd pang of jealousy gripped Tyrion's chest and he chastised himself for the weakness. If he took her offer and ran off to join the rebels, Sansa and her enormous paramour would be reunited. That would certainly help Tyrion's case for clemency, but he'd lose Sansa forever. _I am being an idiot. I never had her, and I never wanted her._

Olenna's hand touched his elbow, and with a gentle nudge, she notified him that it was time to quit staring at Sansa and join everyone else. Joffrey and Margaery were already on their way out, and the front rows were expected to follow. _Last in, last out._ As the two of them stood, Sansa snapped out of her daydream long enough to join them. She glanced nervously between Tyrion and Lady Olenna, as if hoping they hadn't noticed her reaction. _I did indeed, my lady wife._ Garlan Tyrell and his wife trailed behind the royal couple, and the rest of the Tyrell and Lannister guests were right behind, stepping into the aisle and following the procession out the doors to the waiting mass of smallfolk, who burst into adoring applause the instant they saw their beloved queen and tolerable king exit the Sept, arm-in-arm.

Tyrion's aches had mostly faded, and he was grateful that the matched pair was taking the attention off the mismatched one, though they were protected from any onlookers with ill intent by the Kingsguard and a ring of Lannister men. Sansa had regained her poise in time to greet the people and offered a forced smile to anyone who cared to look, and it was even genuine enough to fool Tyrion if he hadn't focused on her eyes. Rose petals marked the path under their feet, leading to a series of horse-drawn carriages that sat in wait with doors open and drivers at the ready. Joffrey and Margaery stepped into the first, Cersei and Kevan took the second, and the third sat unoccupied and tempting, a welcome relief from the long march back home.

"I'd rather walk," Sansa suddenly said.

Tyrion was reaching for the guardrail, but she tugged on his hand to pull him back. The body of the carriage blocked them from the crowd's line of sight, and the remaining Tyrells were filing into several carriages behind them.

"Walk with me," she said, quietly this time. "Please."

Tyrion's back and legs twinged in protest, but he paid them no mind, and instead treated her to an exaggerated bow. "Whatever you wish."

If Sansa realized he was mocking her, she didn't show it. They just walked past the carriage, and when the confused driver looked their way, Tyrion puffed out his chest and made it clear that he was completely sold on the whole hiking idea. The royal procession rolled down Visenya's hill towards the Red Keep, but Tyrion and Sansa took a side route away from prying eyes and protective swords.

 _Where in the seven hells did Bronn go?_ He'd actually instructed him to go back to the Red Keep, which made sense at the time, seeing as the original plan was to ride back in carriages escorted by an army, but they were alone in a moderately safe part of the city that grew less and less so by the footstep. Sansa walked fast enough that he had to struggle to maintain the pace, and she kept looking back over her shoulder as if expecting to be followed.

"Sorry about all of that," she said. "Cersei doesn't approve of me dodging misery for longer than a minute. I have to put on appearances when people are looking."

"Anyone spying on you would have seen naught but an ivory statue with red hair."

She ignored him. "I know how to get us out of the city, if you are willing. Just tell me yes and I'll give you the time and place."

Tyrion stopped short and gaped at her. She sighed in frustration and turned back to him. "What? We can't linger here, look where we are."

It wasn't exactly flea bottom, but they were about a ten minute walk from the Street of Steel and its well-to-do artisans and merchants. In between that oasis and the Red Keep were endless tenements and open sewage canals snaking through the Muddy Way and emptying out into the Blackwater Rush. They could follow that path to the waterfront and over to the Red Keep, or take the riskier path through the neighborhoods until they reached the main street to Aegon's High Hill.

 _Or, we could turn around and rejoin the procession._ "I wish you'd told me before. I could have arranged an escort easily enough."

Sansa brushed that idea away with a pale hand. "More ears, more eyes. The buildings here are all empty. Everyone is at the Sept."

She wasn't wrong, or at least if anyone was home, they weren't making themselves known to Tyrion. He glanced up at shuttered windows and closed doors, then looked around to the empty streets. With the service finished, though, those eyes and ears would already be on their way back.

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "We're probably leading a homecoming procession already and don't know it."

"Which is why I said to get moving," Sansa huffed at him, turning to go.

Tyrion half-jogged to catch up to her. They walked over a bridge, under an arch and through a street that gradually narrowed until it was barely wide enough for two horses to pass. A handful of children who agreed with Tyrion that the whole wedding business a dreadful bore chased each other around and paid neither of them any mind. _They would have, if they_ _'d gotten a better look at me._ Tyrion tried to imagine what the two of them looked like to an uninformed third party, and hoped that a disinterested glance might only show a mother and her crippled son.

 _I have longer term problems than my immediate security._ "If I don't go," Tyrion finally said, "will you go without me?"

He found himself gasping the words, and the effort made his chest burn as if he'd been attempting a sprint. _So much for my flirtation with fitness._ Sansa slowed when she heard his breathing. _Thanks for that, at least._

"I will be gone either way," she said softly, "but I'd rather you came along. They'll blame you for everything, you know."

 _I have every reason to turn my cloak and no reason at all to stay._ Tyrion couldn't bring himself to say what he was really feeling, and worked up a deflection instead. "Cersei blames me for everything, so why not this too? I'm used to it."

"I'm glad your brother is alive," she suddenly said. When Tyrion only breathed at her in silence, she continued. "He's committed terrible crimes, and I wish he weren't set free from my brother's jail, but you said he's one of the only family members you have that really cares about you. Besides the one who died."

 _I talk too much._ The one who died was his favorite uncle Gerion, who had sailed off in to the Smoking Sea never to return, but he might count Uncle Kevan as a runner up. Still, she was close enough. "Thank you for saying that," he finally said, "but I have real power now, and I have Jaime to protect me, as you've said. You don't have to worry about me."

"So you won't stop me?" she said.

 _You know I won_ _'t._ He tapped his chin, feigning a struggle over a difficult decision. "I'd miss you dearly, but then again, those sellswords guarding your door _are_ costing me a fortune."

She looked down at him and frowned. _Just once, can you fucking be honest with her?_ "Well, don't say I didn't offer."

The Muddy Way opened up in front of them, and the sight of a patrol of gold cloaks fifty yards ahead took the weight off Tyrion's shoulders. A wave of exhaustion settled in its place and he paused to rub his thighs. "Let's ask the fine young men in the City Watch to walk us home," he said. "Or perhaps carry, depending on their disposition. What do you say?"

Before Sansa could answer, someone screamed.

The six members of the City Watch were looking in their direction, but the sound snapped their heads north, and without an audible word between them, they took off at a run. Sansa and Tyrion watched their escort disappear into the distance, cloaks trailing in the distance.

"So much for that," Tyrion grumbled. "I hate it when people get murdered at a time that inconveniences me."

Another scream. "I don't think that's-" Sansa started, then stopped and pursed her lip. "No, that was Margaery. That was Margaery's voice."

Tyrion started to ask her how she could possibly know that, but distant shouts and a chorus of screams interrupted him. Sansa grabbed his arm and pulled him across the Muddy Way to another side street. She hiked her dress and sped up enough so that they were nearly jogging, which meant Tyrion might as well have been sprinting. He huffed and puffed and tried to ask questions between breaths, but they only came out as incoherent grunts.

A fork in the road appeared and she stopped short. "Which way?"

Tyrion gasped and pointed up to where Aegon's High Hill hid behind a tall apartment buildling. "Hurry. Bad place."

Rows of eyes stared down at them from the second and third story of run-down tenements on both sides of the street. A filthy man sat on the stoop of one of the buildings, whittling away at piece of wood with a short knife. He glanced up at them and went back to his work, but Tyrion saw motion from a side alley and knew they had to get moving, and fast.

When Sansa hesitated, Tyrion led the way. _What have you got me into?_ His head spun with the possibilities. They were running from screams and unknown danger into known danger, and he wasn't sure which was the better prospect. His natural curiosity niggled at him to turn around and go back, but instead he continued onward, following the streets and not daring to look back.

Sansa suddenly whipped her ring off her finger and tossed it over her shoulder behind her. _They want more from you than a rock._ "How 'bout the dress?" came a rough, distant voice, followed by laughter from a half-dozen men or more. Panic seized him, the exhaustion melted away, and both of them were running. Mud and dung splattered all over the hem of Sansa's fine dress and Tyrion's boots, but he couldn't hear any footsteps besides their own and nobody stepped up to block their path.

"There!" Tyrion shouted, pointing ahead.

Aegon's High Hill loomed in the distance. The street had finally straightened and opened up in The Hook, a wide and well-guarded avenue that would take them home. Only when they were following the road east did Tyrion dare check behind him, but nobody was following. They were safe.

Tyrion and Sansa stopped and panted in front of a half-dozen surprised gold cloaks as they patrolled in the opposite direction. The leader exchanged glances with his men and looked down to Tyrion. "Is that- Lord Lannister?"

 _That_ _'s not how titles work, but close enough._ "Yes, and-" he stopped, gulping in air. "We were being pursued, but the clank of your boots has scared them off, so thank you."

"Was that your wife screaming?" the City Watchman asked.

 _She_ _'s right there, you idiot._ "Lady Sansa, was that you screaming?"

The joke fizzled in the air. "Take us to the Red Keep, please," she said, pressing one hand against her rising chest.

"There's trouble by the Sept," Tyrion said. "We were, uh, escaping it."

The City Watchman arched an eyebrow at him. "The wedding, you mean? What did you see?"

 _I heard a scary sound and ran away. What do you want out of me?_ "Nothing, but I would like to get behind thick red walls as soon as possible, if you don't mind."

The gold cloaks talked quietly among themselves while Sansa and Tyrion caught their breath. He might have tried to catch his dignity too, but it had escaped him years ago. _Eventually there will be a day where I do not humiliate myself a single time from sunup to sundown._ Finally, the watch leader jabbed a thumb back towards the castle, and his men started the march.

"With us, then. Sorry about the confusion, Lord Lannister. Everything's out of order with the festivities and all."

As they walked, Sansa and Tyrion exchanged worried glances. _What did that scream mean?_ Perhaps Joffrey fell out of his carriage and broke his neck, or maybe he tried to take his marital privilege too early and Margaery hadn't yet steeled herself for the task. _But there were more screams._ Everything from the moment they'd left the Sept was a string of bad decisions, but Sansa had wanted to get a moment alone to talk, and apparently their private quarters just weren't private enough. He wanted to write up a list of questions and interrogate her for hours, but in the moment safety overrode his curiosity and they just walked briskly between two rows of gold cloaks and up the hill to home.

Something _was_ happening. A mounted messenger frantically yelled at the gatehouse to be let in, horse and all, and when Tyrion heard the word "maester" he knew nothing good could be going on. The gold cloaks looked at one another nervously as the portcullis at the end of the drawbridge clattered to a raised position.

"We've got to get back, if you don't mind, m'lord," the watch commander said, reflexively gripping the hilt of his sword.

"They said something about the king," a younger man said, evidently the better hearing of their little group.

"I'm sure we can survive the trip over the drawbridge," Tyrion said. "I have the lady here to protect me, at any rate."

Nobody was amused. The watch commander spun on his heels and marched off without another word, and his patrol followed. Sansa frowned at them and then turned back to the keep. "I don't know if this is the safest place for us right now."

 _This fucking girl and her secrets._ "Why? What do you know?"

"Nothing," she said, quickly. "Only, a hunch. If something's happened to Joffrey, they'll take it out on me. You know they will."

Exhaustion, terror, and dread caught up with Tyrion all at once. _Not the safest place._ His head swam, nausea gripped his stomach, and his vision narrowed into a tunnel around his feet. He stared down, blinking, waiting for the head rush to end, but it wouldn't. _They_ _'ll blame the poor, innocent traitor girl._ He grabbed a fistful of Sansa's dress to steady himself. _We conveniently disappeared right when it happened._ "Sansa," he finally managed, "what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" she shouted. "Cersei blames me for everything. If Robb wins a battle, it's because I sent him coded letters full of Tywin's tactics. If Joffrey wakes up with a headache, I've bewitched him. I can't do this anymore." Her face flushed deep red and tears welled in the corners of her eyes. "Didn't you hear her scream? I need to go to the godswood. I can't go back."

"What's in the godswood?"

"The way out. Come on, hurry!"

They still had to cross the drawbridge into the castle to reach the godswood, and the guards in the gatehouse gawked at them as they shuffled by. Tyrion's clothes were soaked with sweat and mud and Sansa had long ago given up on trying to save her dress. _Could they have heard us? What the hell am I doing?_

Bewildered, Tyrion followed his muddy bride through the courtyard and right past the Tower of the Hand to the path that wrapped around to the godswood. In all the years he lived in King's Landing, Tyrion had hardly bothered to visit this place. It was only a sad single acre of mixed southron breeds, but the lovely tree-smell overwhelmed the usual odor of human waste that permeated large cities. _I should come here to read._ Better yet, when Sansa stopped them at the great oak heart tree in the center of the godswood, a beautiful view of the Blackwater Rush opened up to the south. _And Sansa_ _'s escape plan, I'm sure._

"Who are we waiting for?" Tyrion said, after a few moments of silence.

"My contact," Sansa said, in the least helpful manner possible.

"This is foolish," he said, looked around for some sign of what the hell was going on. "You pulled me away from the carriage and I went along with it, you got lost in the back streets and I found a way out, but I'm not going to stand around with my crooked thumb up my ass while we wait for your mystery benefactor to show his face and whisk us away. I never agreed to any of this. I'm going home."

"Then go," she said, turning her back and kneeling. "I'll pray for you."

 _It_ _'s not even the right kind of tree._ "Ask the Crone to come down from the heavens and tell me what the hell you're up to. Nothing short of divine revelation will sort this one out in my head."

Before Tyrion could go, though, somebody shouted and a sword cleared a sheath behind him. He whirled and saw several Lannister men with naked blades walking in his direction. He shouted for Sansa and she stood up next to him.

"They've come for us," she whispered. "I always knew they would."

"That's the Imp," the leader said, waving his sword menacingly. As they cleared the distance every instinct told Tyrion to run, but his body just wouldn't respond. _Where could I possibly go? Scramble over the wall?_

Tyrion clutched Sansa's hand, considerably less shaky than his own. "My wife would appreciate some privacy," he shouted, mustering all the false bravado of an already hanged man taunting his murderers.

"Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Lannister," the man said, just as he reached stabbing range. _That_ _'s not her name_. "You're under arrest on orders from the Hand of the King."

" _I_ _'m_ the bloody hand," Tyrion spat, "and her name-"

"Ser Kevan is Hand of the King," he said lifting the sword to Tyrion's chin. He didn't have to lift far. "Per decree of King Tommen. You're to come with us."


	8. Arya II

ARYA

"I wonder if Sansa is watching the battle," Arya said.

Her mother sighed. "I doubt that very much, my love."

 _She keeps calling me that._ They stood atop the castle walls, looking down on the Lannister and Stark forces arrayed in the parade grounds that, only days earlier, were still littered with the refuse of the dead. Safe behind the battlements, Arya could see the Green Fork and the northern half of the Twins behind her, thick forests to the sides and the great bridge beneath. The Kingsroad stretched south into the horizon through rolling hills, barren fields and the husks of Riverlander villages that sent countless columns of smoke spiraling into the clear sky.

Arya had watched the lion banners crest the hills from a high window and rushed to tell Robb and his men, but their scouts had seen them coming hours and hours ago, so he was ready. A horde of tiny figures followed the banners, and so large was the horde that Arya wondered if the Lannisters had conscripted every single man, woman, and child that grew from Casterly Rock to King's Landing.

Despite the numbers, her sister was still on her mind. "How do you know she isn't here? Maybe they brought her to trade and she's watching from over there, just like we're watching from over here. There are so many tents, and everyone looks the same."

"They're all wearing Lannister armor," Catelyn said. "They wouldn't put a woman in armor, would they?"

She chewed her lip. "What about Lady Brienne?"

Arya didn't know what the proper title for a lady knight was supposed to be, so she just stuck with the normal highborn address and left it there. Catelyn looked at her quizzically. "Where did you hear about Brienne? I never told you about her."

She smiled, toothy and mischievous. "Around."

In truth, it had been Robb. Arya had pestered him for hours about the war and he'd yelled at her to stop asking so many questions and let him sleep, please. So she'd found Raynald Westerling and asked him questions instead, but the maester had shooed her off, and a day later he was dead. From him she'd gone to Greatjon Umber, who only spoke down to her like a child, and then finally went to bed and recited her list as usual before she went to sleep. _Except for the Hound. Robb granted him a pardon, because kings can do that._

She'd gone to Robb again in the morning while he ate. Her mother was already talking with the Tully bannermen, and Robb had a few spare moments to tell her everything that had happened, starting with the moment they'd gotten word of Father's arrest, through the battles and ending at the moment they'd arrived at the Twins for the wedding. He was light on the details when blades and blood came into the mix, and lighter still when he described how he met his new wife, but most of all he refused to say one word of what happened during Uncle Edmure's wedding. Arya was still curious, obviously, but she let him get away with it. _I_ _'ll ask someone else later._ She knew that Smalljon Umber and Dacey Mormont had died. Mormont women fought in armor like men, which she appreciated, but she'd overheard someone saying that the bastard Ryman Frey had danced with her one minute and murdered her the next without even giving her a chance. _And the wolf avenged the bear._

But Dacey was not the only warrior woman in the story. Robb had told her all he knew about Brienne, which wasn't much. She was highborn like Arya, but almost as tall as the Hound and probably just as strong. She wore brilliant armor just as blue as her eyes and had earned her place in Renly's Kingsguard by fighting - and beating! - a hundred men in a row, all in one day without a break. She knew that was Robb's little embellishment for her sake, but the part about Brienne winning was probably real. After that, poor Renly had been murdered by a shadow, and she'd escaped to swear herself to Arya's mother. That made her a Stark knight, sort of, and she'd gone to trade the Kingslayer for Sansa and Arya's freedom.

"Do you think Jaime Lannister is lying?" Arya said, startling her mother with the sudden shift in subject.

"He swore he wasn't," she said, looking down at her feet. "But talking about it won't make it come true. All we can do is wait to hear word, and in the meantime, we should go find a weirwood tree and ask the gods to help your brother defeat Tywin Lannister, should he escape the field today."

Arya had no problem talking to her father's gods, but they were in the Riverlands, so shouldn't she go to a Sept? Catelyn must have seen the question in her eyes, because she smiled warmly and touched her shoulder. "The Old Gods have made themselves known. Guest right was law many thousands of years before the Seven Pointed Star was even written. The Andals learned it from the First Men, not the other way around."

"But-" Arya started, but couldn't put the question together. Instead, she only chewed on her lip and looked up into her mother's ever-patient face.

"We'll be at Riverrun soon enough, and we have a real weirwood tree in the godswood there, just like home. We owe everything to the Old Gods now. They've given us the wolves, too, don't forget that."

 _Nymeria._ Arya had dreamt she was a wolf every single night since the battle at the Twins, but it was getting normal enough that she stopped paying attention. Suddenly she tasted iron on her tongue, then smelled rising fear in the enemy, massing as they were far off into the distance. Tywin Lannister was there, somewhere, and if she concentrated, perhaps she could sniff him out and tell Robb where to strike. Maybe she could even wait until nightfall and, in her dreams, sneak through the enemy camp and burst into his tent. She could tear his throat out just like Grey Wind had done to that fat Frey. She could feast on his flesh and howl to her pack to come and slaughter the rest, to crack open their steel shells and tear their limbs off and spray her fur with blood.

"Arya?"

She blinked away the image and looked up to see her mother's face twisted into confusion and horror, and Arya suddenly realized a hand was on her shoulder, shaking her gently back and forth.

"I'm here," she blurted out. "I'm fine."

A horn sounded. She could hear it both close and far away. Her mother looked over the battlements to the formations in motion, then back to Arya. "Let's go back inside. You've lost too much sleep, running around the castle bothering everyone."

"But I want to _see_ it," she whined. "You promised."

Catelyn started with the familiar stern look as if she wanted to admonish her, but hesitated, then nodded solemnly. "You're right. You are a Stark, and you have the blood of the First Men. You have a right to understand. We'll watch from here, and when the wounded come in, you'll help Maester Vyman with them, alright? And you'll rest when you've done your part."

Arya's breath caught in her throat. _I_ _'m going to see the Old Gods win freedom for the North._ She understood now what everybody had been saying since the day Father had come home with the direwolf pups, one for each Stark and a white wolf for Jon Snow. They always said it was a gift from the Old Gods, some sort of power to defeat their enemies, and Arya could feel that power when the wolf dreams came to her during waking hours. As divine interference went, the wolves were but a gentle nudge. At the moment the Old Gods had given Robb guns, they'd lifted him by the scruff of his neck and hurled him into victory.

"Aren't the guns so strong that we won't even have wounded?" she asked.

Catelyn thought it over for a moment. "For _their_ wounded."

Even though they were much closer, Robb's surviving forces seemed pitifully small compared to what Tywin Lannister had brought to bear. Arya knew the numbers would actually be an advantage, because in a more equal fight Tywin would be cautious about taking heavy losses. Robb had mentioned that Stannis Baratheon still posed a significant threat, and he was counting on Tywin's fear of a war on many fronts. _He has no idea what_ _'s about to hit him._ Robb had said that even if Tywin somehow won, he'd spend the rest of his life fending off pretenders to the throne, rebel factions wanting to toss the Lannister bastard into the sea, and even foreign invaders like this Mother of Dragons and her army of slaves and Dothraki screamers. That last bit of news had come to White Harbor via Braavosi traders, and Wendel Manderly couldn't stop talking about it, now that he could talk once more.

Horns blew again from the Lannister camp, and the enormous mass of men solidified into a series of squares. Spearpoints glittered under the sun and horses stepped out to the flanks in great columns, hundreds and hundreds of them, resplendent in gold armor and silver steel. _It_ _'s not really silver and gold. They just like to show off._ Robb's army moved in a less orderly fashion, but they at least held a firm front line with ranks and ranks of reserves plus archers and a small core of mounted Riverlander knights, nimble light cavalry who meant to run around the side and break the enemy's spirits with a mass charge at just the right time.

They advanced.

When she was younger, Arya had devoured a book on Dornish weapons, illuminated in beautiful detail for consumption by children and the illiterate. She remembered how sometimes the men would couch their tall spears under their arm, then lower the point to a straight line and charge ahead as if they were in a joust. Some of the guns, the bigger ones, looked a lot like one of those spears, except half the length and with the little hole on the end instead of a sharp steel point. Every man on both sides of the coming battle wore thick cloaks for the crisp autumn weather, but only one army had those long guns hidden underneath, each one secured by long leather straps that ran across the bearer's shoulders. Robb only had a few of those to go around, but he promised her the effect would be devastating, no matter how much armor the target wore. He had to really work hard to keep them secret, too, because what if a Lannister spy found out? What if they stole one and ran off with it? Robb said the weapons were dangerous for everyone, and they were just as lethal in the hands of an Andal as they were a First Man. They couldn't afford to treat their gifts so lightly. What would the gods think if the Starks were such fools as to hand their great advantage to the enemy?

As the wolves slowly marched to the lions, Arya saw her mother reach down to her waist and reflexively touch the bulky object hidden underneath. _You should give me one, and let me fight with them!_ But Arya had that argument a hundred times already, and neither her brother nor her mother were going to budge. She was too young, of course. She was always too young for everything.

Horns blew on both sides in specific patterns, long-short-long, or four shorts, or sometimes the pitch would change. She hadn't bothered to learn the code, but she remembered seeing it written down in the war room. The Stark line widened to the point where a solid shield wall was impossible. It would do nothing against so many soldiers, anyway, since they could just wrap around the sides with sheer numbers and destroy them that way. Robb had used the word "encirclement" and that would be a disaster, even with guns. He wanted them to attack head-on, face to face, where the guns were strongest.

The Lannister sides loosed the first arrow volley, but it came up short as it was meant to. The book had said that Dornishmen did that too, but Arya supposed everyone did, and for the same reason. Shoot enough arrows into the dirt, and maybe the other side hesitates, or even runs away. The lines slowed down even more and Arya balled her fists, tense from head to toe, waiting and waiting for all these warriors to hurry up and fight like they were supposed to.

"The first attack is always slow like this," her mother explained. "They're working up the courage, testing the other side, and all. Nobody wants to be the first man to die."

"Valar morghulis," Arya said.

Catelyn gaped at her for a second. "What was that? Where did you pick that up?"

"All men must die," she said. "It's what they say in Braavos. All men must die, so why take so long to attack? Just get it done."

A chorus of drums rose over the battlefield, but it wasn't drums. It was men pounding on shields with their spears, axes, and swords. The Lannisters were goading the Starks into charging them, but they kept their ranks loose and marched so slowly that Arya thought she was going to scream.

The drumming must not have impressed her mother. "The Braavosi who told you that," she went on, "was that your dancing master? Or the prisoner you helped free?"

"The prisoner. Only, I don't think he was ever really a prisoner. You should have seen him. No cage could ever hold someone like that. He had real power, too, and not anything some god gave him. He served the many faced god but his powers were just his. He could kill _anybody,_ but I wasted my names instead of saying Tywin or Joffrey. Or Cersei. I bet if the Imp was in charge everything would be better."

Her mother drew her in close for a hug, but said nothing. _She_ _'s worried about me._ Arya leaned into her dress and they both watched the Stark line advance into the archer's range. The next volley landed among their raised shields, but they were far enough away now that she couldn't tell how many people were hit, even when she squinted. The arrows poured and poured but the Stark men just kept going, the Lannisters kept beating on their shields and then, finally, the advancing line stopped.

"Listen carefully to the sound," Catelyn said, softly. "The sound of your father's gods. For so long they've watched, and when it strikes their fancy, they might listen. Now, they speak."

 _Crack_.

The first shot came from an overenthusiastic man on the right flank, but within seconds everyone with a concealed gun had it out and firing across the open field into the enemy and their useless plate, mail, and shields. The first few _cracks_ were distinct enough, but soon so many reached her ears that it was like trying to hear a single raindrop in a storm.

But she _did_ hear the shots, each of them distinct from the other and spread out over the long line. Suddenly they were close, much closer, and so loud that she hid her ears under her paws and pushed her face into the dirt. The men screamed and shouted in panic and she smelled the urine and fear and blood all around her, plus an acrid burning smell that she couldn't place coming from the Stark lines. She looked up and saw the Lannister men scattering, people pointing and crying something in their man-tongue, then a hundred piss-soaked cowards tossing their splintered shields aside and turning to flight. Most of the runners clutched their chest, stomach, legs, neck, wherever the blood was leaking, but few of them got very far before they stumbled and fell.

That damned horn blew again, shrill and painful to her sensitive hearing, and she saw some confused men still in the front cautiously advance. They kept looking at one another, then back over their shoulder for a call to retreat, but no reprieve was coming. Men on horses rode back and forth with tall lion banners, but every now and then one would recoil from an invisible impact and fall off his horse into the dirt, or else they would slump across their mount's neck as if a sudden shock of sleep had overtaken them. Soon nobody was left to tell anyone what to do, and even the bravest men who'd tried to follow the order to advance turned around and joined the other runners. The front line was breaking and they were running past the bewildered reserves and far into the distance, far away from the battle and the dreadful power of the Old Gods.

Dead and wounded littered the ground where the line had been. Arya couldn't count them from so low to the ground, but it wasn't a whole lot compared to the huge mass who'd come. The red-and-gold flanks tried to move out and surround their enemy, but the Stark men were so spread out that the attackers were hemmed in by the treeline on either side. She could smell the horses before she saw them, and though they expected to crest the hill and immediately break into a charge, they hadn't seen the magic happen and they had no idea what was waiting for them.

Arya lifted herself off the ground while the men on the horses learned their terrible lesson. She crept forward and passed between the trees, sniffing around for a scout's scent trail and finding nothing but herself and her pack. They were right behind her, too, a hundred of them, following loyally as they always did, and though they were much smaller than her, they still had claws sharp enough and teeth vicious enough to pierce a lion's hide.

The forest shrouded them as they stalked their way south. The many-faced god said she could take a life for a life and nothing more, but she was with the Old Gods now and all the rules were out. She had taken her three and now she would take a fourth, and probably another four and another twenty and another hundred before the day was over. Men were running in great numbers, now, not just the wounded and panicked but everyone, because _everyone_ was panicked. In the center near the back were a series of huge canvas tents where the humans would congregate before the battles to decide where to go and how to fight, but all that planning was gone now, and the flood of men and horses filtered through the tents and out the other side in a mass stampede that shook the earth under her paws and tore the grass free under their iron boots.

Then she saw someone sitting a horse, a fine animal shrouded by the ugly man-clothes that they always forced them to wear. Man and rider were standing near one of the biggest tents, the ones the humans had put up on the highest hill so their pack leaders could see the battlefield from the best vantage point. _And so I can see you_. She walked to the edge of the treeline as lions clanked by in their metal cages, but she did not watch them or particularly care where they were going. She was still watching the man on the horse by the tent.

He was tall, he was gray, and he was familiar. The gray was not on his head like most old men, but the whiskers, and not a cat's whiskers over the lip either, but the man-whiskers that grew out of their faces like fur. She'd seen him not long before, and she probably would have known who he was just from the fancy armor. The others had fake gold over their torsos but she remembered his was real. He hopped off the horse and dashed inside the biggest tent, while the smaller ones around it were trampled underfoot by the running men.

And then Arya was among them.

Her pack followed. They ignored the runaways for now and charged between them and up the hill. One crashed into Arya's long flank and fell tumbling end-over-end, but she ignored the sharp pain and kept sprinting on all fours. When men saw Arya and her family, they shrieked and spun and tried to run in any direction they could find, crashing into one another or even running back towards the disaster in front of the stone cage. Her prey still did not emerge from the tent, and as she drew nearer and nearer to the hilltop, she was pleased he hadn't joined his smarter brethren and tried to escape. Arya finished climbing the little hill and bounded past the stakes, through the throng of terrified escapees and across the field to the tent with the wide-open flap at the front.

The others were behind her, though many had ignored her example and stopped to kill and drink blood, but she would deal with them later. For now there was the man in the real gold, wide-eyed and just as scared as the runners, if his scent was any indication. When she slipped into the tent he was there, parchments rolled up under his arm and a huge sack slung over the other shoulder, and he was just stepping out when Arya stepped in.

She growled. He pissed himself and dropped everything at his feet.

The sack hit the ground with a thud and a jingle. The man's jaw hung open and his knees shook with fright. He stepped back slowly as Arya approached, snarling and slavering in anticipation of the kill. An open box lay behind him but he didn't see it and tripped, spilling over backwards and striking the earth with the back of his bald head. She leapt over the box and threw her full weight on his chest, pinning him with her front paws and scraping at his legs with the rear. He cried out in the man's language, spat mucus and whimpered like a newborn pup.

Arya snapped at his neck, then opened her jaw and swallowed up his entire throat with one great bite. Blood filled her mouth and stained her teeth. She threw her head back and tossed it side to side, blood spraying from her maw. More and more blood gushed from the hole and coated her fur from nose to neck. She reached down again and bit down at whatever flesh was left behind but she'd gotten almost all of it in the first try. He lay still, eyes wide with terror, feet jutting in the air and propped up by the box he'd fallen over. The lion was dead.

She climbed back over the box and rejoined her pack outside. Most of them waited on their haunches, but the stragglers were trying to fight and most of them were dying for the trouble. Arya could kill any man, she knew, but her packmates could die to single man in armor with a sword if they fought alone, and some of the braver men understood that well enough not to turn their backs and give away a free kill. Some wolves killed their quarries easily, while many others foolishly leapt straight into the sharp iron fangs and died in an instant. _The pack is better without them._ The running men ignored their little hill completely now, filtering around the side or dashing into the forest, so she sat on her haunches, licked the blood from her teeth, raised her head to the clear blue sky and howled.

She howled and howled with all her strength, stopped to breathe deep, and howled again. She didn't know why, but it felt _right._ Every living thing within a dozen miles would hear that howl and know that a great alpha had come to stalk the lion, and the alpha had won. The wolves had won, all of them, except the stupid ones who'd separated from the rest and died, but that was how her pack grew stronger. The weak were culled and made room for the strong.

But there were both wolves and wolf-men, now, and upon seeing Arya lording over her victory, the humans chose not to pursue. They'd kept rank instead of a mad hunt and chase, as less disciplined human armies might, so some commander blew those infernal horns again and they retreated back to the original field. On the way they stopped to strip the dead of their weapons and armor, though a few scouts rode ahead and looked up at Arya and her pack. They quickly decided that the first rank of pursuers had made the right call. One of them stepped forward and waved and Arya recognized him, then felt her brother by his side and heard his own howl shake the air around her.

With the pursuit finished, Arya led the pack back down the hill and into the treeline. She needed to return to her sanctuary, lest they have more run-ins with the wolf-men or the lions or anyone else who might chain them up and steal their freedom. Perhaps they would be hunted or maybe even worshiped, but they would not be free except in the forests where they could roam, hunt, and fight at their pleasure. Arya would find new, better packmates to replace the lost, and she would watch out for the wolf-men and see where they went next and who they fought. She would like to see her brother again.

Arya stared up at the ceiling in her cramped little quarters. She'd been given a stone bed, but the servants wanted to make an impression on their new lords and had found her piles of stuffing to cram under the sheets. Only, she'd left the bed to go upstairs and watch the battle, but she was back again, and her mouth was full of blood.

She panicked for a split second and took a sharp breath, but the air came in clean. _No, it_ _'s just the taste, there's nothing in my mouth._ In a flash, she sat up and looked around for anyone to explain where her fur had gone and why she was trapped in stone. She panted and clawed at her clothes and hair, and soon she was shaking uncontrollably and kicking feebly at the uneven bedding until she rolled over and fell out onto the soft carpet.

"Arya!"

It was her mother. She scooped her up into her arms and held her close. Arya sobbed and buried her face in her mother's neck. She could smell the scent of…perfume, a woman's perfume, and nothing more. No iron, no loose bodily fluids, none of the pain and terror of battle. She only smelled her mother, and she cried.


	9. Davos II

DAVOS

The portcullis of Gallowsgrey rattled and groaned in protest, then lifted slowly from the earth until it locked into place at the top of the track. Behind it was a middle-aged man with a lordly look about him, from the well-bred white horse to the clothes fancier than anything Davos could have ever afforded in his old life. Stolen, maybe, but in those days he had to put most of his money back into his ship. His ship, and his children, and the bribes and everything else that drained his purse, and he always expected to wind up like the hanged man in the sigil embroidered on the lord's breast. _Life is unpredictable, a lesson Melisandre learned too late._ He was a lord himself now, with a horse and finery of his own to match, and Stannis's generosity had him looking just as stuffy as Lord Lucas Trant.

"Where's the king?" he said, by way of greeting.

"Indisposed," Davos said. "I am his Hand, and you'll be discussing terms with me."

Lord Lucas's face twisted into a snarl for just the briefest moment, but he pulled it back before he said anything he might regret. Instead, he only huffed and made some guttural noise in protest, then nodded sharply and turned his horse back around.

Davos and his ten picked men rode behind him. Lucas's two sons, one grown and one nearly so, sat ahorse on the other side. As they'd agreed well beforehand, two of Davos's men led them out of the gate to act as hostages, while the rest of the party accompanied the Lord of Gallowsgrey into his manor, a modest hall constructed inside the curtain wall but outside the keep. The ground was grey as the name, and the hooves of Davos's horse alternatively stuck and slipped in the mud as they rode past hovels ranging from a pitiful farmer's market, currently abandoned, to other craftsman's stands and an empty stables. _He is a lord of shit, and Stannis is its king._

The banner of the hanged man flew over the hall, just as it did over the keep beyond and the walls behind him. Lord Lucas dismounted and tied his horse to a stand, then beckoned for Davos and the rest to follow. Inside, the room was well lit by hotly burning braziers, showing off an enormous tapestry hanging on the back wall, plus oil paintings, rich carpets, and plush seating arranged around a long table that Lord Lucas must have used to receive all of his visitors. The tapestry was a depiction of Argilac Durrandon's final battle with Orys Baratheon during the Conquest, and for some reason the last Storm King was portrayed as standing over a defeated stag lord with his hammer raised high. Soldiers of both banners stood formed a circle around their dueling lords and jeered, looking less like fighting men and more like onlookers to a street brawl, and purple lightning coursed through a dark thundercloud that dominated the top third of the whole tapestry.

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" Lord Lucas said, as he sat down.

The Lord's place at the end of the table meant that anyone looking at him from the entrance would be distracted by the Storm King over one shoulder and poor Orys over the other. The hammer even looked as if it were about to strike Lucas's head, if Davos looked from just the right angle.

"If I know my history," Davos said, looking back and forth between the snarling fury of King Argilac and the terror-stricken Lord Orys, "I do believe that battle went the other direction."

"Artistic license," Lord Lucas said, waving a hand as if to dismiss the conversation entirely. "But you are not here to criticize my decorations. A Baratheon has come to conquer, you are here to discuss terms, and I don't want to wind up as dead as the Storm King. So we'll talk."

Davos took a seat near Lord Lucas and the Baratheon knights followed, while the rank-and-file soldiers stood by the door. _Excessive, with the boys in our power, but Stannis ordered me to be cautious._ "The king only wants you to acknowledge him as your rightful liege lord, and to disavow the pretender Joffrey Hill."

"Tommen Hill," Lord Lucas corrected him, a split second before Davos realized the error himself. "Or Tommen Baratheon, depending on who you believe."

"Which Lannister bastard sits on my king's throne is not my concern," Davos said, harsher than he meant, "but what _does_ concern me when Stormlander lords continue to pay homage to the wrong dynasty entirely. If you have some doubt of Stannis's legitimacy, I'd like to hear it."

Lord Lucas smiled a sad smile. "My sons sit outside the walls, and you'd have me speak treason?"

"I'd have you speak the truth," Davos said. "The truth is that Stannis Baratheon is the rightful heir to Robert Baratheon, who was king by right of conquest and lineage. As King Robert left no legitimate heirs of his body, the throne falls to his brother. Do you contest that simple fact?"

The Lord Trant spent a long few seconds eying Davos before responding. "I do not contest it."

 _Go for the kill._ "Then why is this negotiation even happening?" Davos said, waving a hand as if exasperated.

The last few weeks had been frustrating. Though no Stormlander was foolish enough to raise arms against him, many of the disloyal Baratheon bannermen shut their gates and sent letters off to King's Landing for help that would likely never come, Trant included. Even now, with the lions falling one by one and the northerners winning battles with sorcery, these holdouts still clung to their false king and the ghost of Tywin Lannister.

"I am not saying I hold to this particular position," he began, raising a palm in surrender, "nor am I making an argument of any kind. I am merely relaying the words of far less faithful men, and from their lips I have heard it said that Stannis's claim to the throne is burning at the bottom of the Blackwater, lost by the rule of martial contest. I have also heard it said that the Tyrells are still strong and the war with the north is already over, the armies have returned, and that Robb Stark has no intention of continuing his campaign outside of the Riverlands. Those who speak such treasons point out that Ser Kevan controls the realm, not King Tommen or Lady Cersei, and with the combination of fresh Tyrell and depleted Lannister armies, the Hand has more than enough of a grip to crush our rightful king when the next battle begins. I hear these things."

"But Tywin-"

"-was a hindrance to the Lannisters," Lord Lucas said. Davos flushed briefly with anger, but the hanged man waited patiently for him to calm. "He refused to ever consider peace of any kind with the north. For the great Lord Tywin, the Young Wolf's future was one of unconditional surrender or, preferably, total defeat. Now? Ser Kevan is drawing borders. You see how the war shifts? A defeat becomes a victory, all because a wiser man, one not so commanded by his pride and baser instincts, has seized power. Tywin has even been made to take the blame for Lord Eddard's execution, though I don't believe he had his Hand in it at all."

 _That_ _'s new to me._ "You are incredibly well informed for someone who sits in a castle surrounded by a hostile army," Davos said.

"You have shot down the birds, this is true," the Lord of Gallowsgrey said, "but my sources have been with me for much longer than the current crisis, you have to understand. And the rumors about sorcery and shapeshifting are impossible to ignore. They seem to float through the air as if incorporeal, drift through my walls and settle in my ears. Robb Stark turns into a wolf and kills the Lord of the Crossing, then does it again for the false king, and finally a third time for the great lion himself. Who is next? What are the terms, exactly, of Ser Kevan's agreement with the young wolf? Will Robb Stark slay a second king in our Stannis Baratheon, if his own crown is his reward?"

 _Meryn Trant._ Davos knew exactly who his source was, though he wasn't sure how rumors kept drifting into Gallowsgrey after weeks of siege. _Maybe a little bird told him._ "In yourself, you describe a man who blows with the political winds," Davos said. "One who judges which competing power has the upper hand and latches on accordingly. If you were true, you would be begging your liege lord to let you join his army, no matter how bleak his claim may appear, no matter how much strength the Lannisters and the Tyrells show to the world. A true man would never have walked into the throne room after the Blackwater and bent his knee to the usurpers."

"Yet I am to believe that our King Stannis offers me a reprieve?" Lord Trant said, sighing. "Another reprieve. I am forgiven for siding with Renly, then forgiven for siding with Stannis, then Stannis forgives me for siding with Tywin. What a life. You ask too much, Lord Davos. You've thrown your sons in the fire and not wavered an inch, but I've seen my share of losses at the Blackwater and elsewhere, and I've no stomach for losing whatever is left. Perhaps some of my daughters might die for the sake of parity? Or maybe the newest boy king will see my family crest and think of it as an instruction."

 _He only responds to power and politics. Oaths are nothing to him, especially if he asks his brother to inform him while wearing the white cloak._ "The Lannisters are collapsing and the Tyrells will abandon them soon enough," Davos persisted. "The truth is not as bleak as you say. For once in your bloody life, the honest play is the smart one. Fulfill your oaths. Take that garrison down from that wall and join your numbers to Stannis."

"My brother," he whispered, and suddenly his eyes were pleading.

"He'll be fine," Davos said, but uncertainty touched him. Would he? "Ser Kevan would not throw away a Kingsguard just because his brother stayed loyal to his rightful king. He gave up his claims when he took his oath." _We can only hope._

Lord Trant spread his hands on the table and hardened his eyes. "Ser Kevan will return to the war shortly," he said, "and the Lannister woman will rule. What, then? How will our king protect my brother? Can you tell me that? The king can't even defend himself. Will his Red Woman slay the wolf when it comes? I've heard she is already sailing back to the land of shadows, a world too far to away to be any use, and her magic has already proven impotent against the power of the Old Gods. That leaves you and your maimed hand staying disaster, and when you fail, who will follow the disfigured little girl into battle? This is what I hear, anyway. Traitors are everywhere."

"So they are," Davos grumbled. "And those men on the wall? How loyal will _they_ be, when they realize they've put in with a faithless lord? I suppose we will starve them out, then, until they tired of your decision to prolong their suffering. What is it that motivates you now? Fear, maybe, or pride, or perhaps you just have a taste for disloyalty and bad choices. When the rats are gone, your men'll tie you up and toss you over the walls, and those daughters you mentioned will be next, if they are lucky. I can't guarantee any of you will survive the fall."

Lucas Trant smiled again, but tears welled in his eyes. "Perhaps some hero will deliver us a crate of onions."

Davos looked up at the tapestry again, at the victorious Argilac and ahistorically defeated Orys Baratheon, then back down to his host. "You sit in your castle and enjoy your fictions. The King grows less forgiving every day."

Davos waved his maimed left hand in the traitor's face, then stood and turned his back. Lord Trant did not mutter a word of protest.

As agreed, Davos sent the sons back the moment his last man cleared the gate. As the younger son stepped through, the portcullis shuddered and dropped behind him. He turned back over his shoulder to look at Davos one last time, but the great wooden doors slammed shut, and it was over.

"Well?" Stannis said.

Word of Stannis's successful parlay with Lord Kellington had reached Davos's ears the night before. Other castles in the Stormlands had surrendered without incident as Stag armies approached, returning to the king roughly half of his old territory and manpower. Some bannermen were more enthusiastic about their rediscovered loyalty than others, as the marcher lords Dondarrion, Foote, Selmy, and Swann had gathered an army and joined them to Stannis before he'd even asked. _I wonder if Lord Swann fears for Ser Balon_ _'s life._

The king had arrived while Davos was inside, and he looked to him expectantly for an update. Davos sighed. "Poorly."

"I assumed as much," Stannis said. "Anyone who raised their banner for Renly can't be trusted for reason or loyalty."

"Then why send me, your grace?" Davos said.

"Because you're true," he said. "Because when a false man sees a true one, he is reminded of his duties. Because you're honest, and when you promise pardons, people listen. I am not quite so convincing."

 _What am I supposed to say to that?_ "No man doubts your word."

"I thank you for saying that, and I know you believe it, but you are wrong." Stannis ground his teeth. "I have always been the laughingstock of the realm. Robert humiliates himself with women and drink, but the people love him anyway. I announce what I've learned about the Queen's bastards, and I am met with silence or derision. I can't stand it, Davos. It's been like this my entire life. I speak the truth as I see it, and all I hear back is laughter."

 _Do you hear what they say about the upjumped smuggler?_ "Lord Trant has information from the throne," Davos said, fleeing the uncomfortable subject. "His brother tells him that Ser Kevan is likely to sign a treaty with Robb Stark."

"I don't suppose they've both decided to abdicate," Stannis said dryly.

"Neither of them are," Davos said. "It is likely that the seven kingdoms will become six. Five, if we lose the Iron Islands as well. The Starks and the Tullys will fight us to keep their independence, if it comes to it."

"Hogwash," Stannis spat. "The Starks will never ally themselves to the Lannisters. Not until Eddard Stark's head is sewn back to his neck and his body filled with warmth."

"That's just it," Davos said, "the responsible parties are nearly all dead. Only the Queen lives, and we've both heard the witnesses. She made a deal for Stark to take the black, like his brother did in the rebellion, but at the last moment the boy king stepped in and gave the order." Davos paused to take a deep breath. "There's more. Trant has gotten word that Tywin Lannister is already being blamed for Lord Eddard's murder, now that he isn't around to defend himself anymore."

"And his lapdog rules the realm," Stannis said, glaring at Davos as if the idea were utterly foolish. "The northerners will never believe that nonsense about Tywin and Joffrey acting alone. The Lion of Lannister never moves without Ser Kevan standing in his shadow, and the opposite is also true. Even today, the Hand consults his brother's mutilated corpse on how best to wear Tommen's crown."

 _His humor grows morbid as the hurdles grow taller._ "Your grace?"

He huffed. "A bad jest. I know something about ghosts and dead brothers. Robb Stark has two of them, and even a sister, that poor child. I'd say the alliance is doomed before it began. He'd take a deal with me, maybe, but never a lion."

Davos's jaw dropped. "A deal? With the north?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Stannis said, waving him off with a gesture. "I didn't say I would _offer_ the deal, only that he would accept it. So we are at an impasse, and the throne will be decided with blood. Let us see who the Old Gods favor now."

 _In a war of the gods, we have become atheists._ Lord Trant had been more right than wrong, and foremost among his insights was Lady Melisandre. She was gone. The king could no longer rely on shadows and prophecies to guide him, nor leeches popping on the fire and sacrifices for good weather and better hunting. Very little of what she had promised had ever come to pass, and what did was a horror. _Good riddance._

Other news made him more nervous. "It can't be a coincidence, your grace," he said, but hesitated to finish his thought.

"Yes?"

 _The king would not want me to hold anything back._ "The wolves," he finally said. "Both Joffrey and Tywin were killed by shapeshifting wolves. So say the rumormongers."

Stannis grunted and his face twitched with irritation. _"Trained_ wolves, Davos. Beasts can be taught simple commands without invoking the mysteries of the arcane. Nobody saw Robb flee the scene Stark naked, did they? It was never a secret that Lord Eddard's children raised direwolves as pets, and one of them even savaged Joffrey years ago, when Robert was still alive."

 _What is he talking about?_ "I'm sorry, your grace, I'm not familiar-"

"When Robert made Ned hand," the king explained. His patience thinned by the moment. "On the kingsroad, one of the Stark girls had brought along her pet, and the beast tore into Joffrey's arm with its teeth. Had it been any larger the cretin would've died right there and we'd all have benefited from its charity, but it was just a pup then and the boy survived. Robert had it executed for its trouble, but the other children had their own wolves, and now they are grown."

Davos had heard the stories of Stark's personal monster. He made love to it at night and rode it into battle by day, or so the idiots claimed, but what was not in dispute was that the King in the North trained his animal for war.

"The younger Stark boys are long dead, but there is still the last Stark girl and the bastard at the wall."

Stannis shook his head. "Wasn't the white wolf," he said. "And of the two Stark girls, the one with the dead wolf has died herself. It's Sansa Stark who lives, and she obviously sent her wolf after Joffrey at the same time that Robb Stark sent his after Tywin. The whole time she's been a prisoner in King's Landing, she's been in touch with her brother, spying on the Lannisters and coordinating the attack." A hint of a smile touched his lips. "I admire it, Lord Davos, if I'm being honest. Half the reason I kept that red charlatan around was because she loosened bowels everywhere she went. Who wants to fight a witch? The Starks have managed the same trick by a cleverer method. Instead of using a queer foreign religion to build their reputation, they've mixed in vague thousand-year-old mysticism with good planning and some excellent sleight of hand. They've got the whole world thinking they are sorcerers. I won't fall for it, and neither should you."

 _How did I not see it?_ Davos touched the golden chain of hands around his neck, the one that had replaced his luck after the sea spit him out, and wondered how he could claim to be an able Hand when he would fall so readily for subterfuge and superstition. _Stark is vulnerable. I should have never doubted._

After a long silence, Davos nodded. "We have a long war ahead of us before we can turn north."

Stannis nodded. "Aye. In truth, I suspect Robb Stark will stand down on his own, once I've secured the south. We talked about that some years ago when he first took his crown, and I still believe it. He'll need to find some pretext to save face with his bannermen, but he'll find it."

"Targaryens," Davos said, remembering his studies with Maester Pylos. Robert had won his throne by right of conquest, but some people need their excuses to feel right about the world, and the family tree was his. "He'll use the Targaryen claim from your mother's side." _Just like Tyrell and Martell did after the rebellion._

"That'll work well enough," he said, shrugging. "Claims are a facade. In truth, it's winter that'll force their hand. The armies will likely stay in the Riverlands where the weather will remain bearable, but they'll need food, and that means a deal with the Reach. I'll broker the offer once Stark bends the knee. Otherwise, they can starve, and when the snow melts I'll march up to Winterfell and install a Karstark or someone else who will listen to reason."

The King in the North _is_ the aggrieved party, Davos knew, and he had every right to fight the usurpers who stole his throne, but he was still surprised to see such leniency from Stannis Baratheon of all people. Another chance for Robb Stark? He'd failed to answer his king's call once before, and that had cost them the Battle of the Blackwater.

"You are surprised to hear that the rebel may keep his head."

"Your grace?"

"You forget I can read your mind, friend," Stannis said, smiling sadly. "Not that I hold any great talent, but you write your thoughts on your eyes."

"We only lost at the Blackwater because Robb Stark sat by and let Tywin Lannister come relieve his son," Davos said. "You already gave him his second chance, and he spat in your face."

Stannis thought that one over for a long moment, and Davos gave him time to answer. "The boy has failed to do his duty, that is true, and I meant it when I said I would never offer a deal with the North, nothing except a bent knee and an oath." He paused, deep in thought. "I know something of the pressures of duty at his age. I was not much older than the Young Wolf when your ship full of onions appeared in my castle, as if delivered by the gods or some wondrous magic. My men feasted and your sons became lords. But I remember doubt, too, and I remember the souls who suffered under my care, and the clash of the two terrible obligations that define the life of every vassal lord. I must do right by my men on one hand, and on the other I must ask them to starve so my brother can be king, so which hand do I choose? I know my answer, but only because I choose the easy one, as the oaths grant me a defense for any abhorrent action I might ever take." His face darkened. "I also know something of being too young to lose a father. The law is clear, but a king's word muddies whatever he sees fit. I suppose I will offer the boy a third chance and let him decide whether or not he wants to take it. That is the best deal he will ever get."

"Well?" Stannis said, when he didn't get an immediate response. "What does my Hand think of the future?"

"If I knew that, you'd have never needed the Red Woman to begin with."

Stannis snorted. They left Gallowsgrey behind, an army on the march to the next holdout on the list. _When we return, we shall not be so diplomatic._ A handful of castles remained, and as soon as the Stormlands was wrapped up, they would be on the way to King's Landing.

 _If the wolves don_ _'t get us first._


	10. Sansa II

SANSA

Sansa waited for three days before they let her speak to her husband.

All things considered, she knew she was lucky to see him at all. Cersei had deemed them co-conspirators, no doubt planning the murder by some sort of secret code, and far too dangerous to be left in a room together for five minutes, let alone occupy the same cell. Ser Kevan had his reservations as well, but eventually he'd relented and agreed that the happy couple might have a few moments to talk. It had been hours since he'd gone to fetch Tyrion, though, and she began to wonder if he'd just wanted to mollify her until the trial.

 _I wish I could have seen Joffrey._ A man turned into a wolf and half tore his head from his shoulders, so went the rumors, though Ser Kevan was her only source and he was light on the details. The man-beast had bounded over the inattentive Kingsguard and Lannister men, smashed the carriage open and ruined the king's throat before swords could clear scabbards. Just like that, he was gone, tearing off into the morning's light and vanishing among the hovels of Flea Bottom, and after that the new Hand would say no more. _Perhaps he wound up in the stew._

Or maybe he was a she. _Nymeria still lives, does she not?_ Grey Wind would be in the battle at the Twins, which Sansa knew should be over by now. Perhaps Bran and Rickon's wolves had lived where their masters had not, and those great beasts had drifted this far south to avenge themselves on her father's murderer. Or maybe it really was a shapeshifter, or a particularly large dog, or some other ridiculous explanation. _I am losing my mind._ She was an old hand at being someone else's prisoner, but that time had been mostly luxury and only a minimum of abuse, whereas the cells under the Red Keep were stinking cages of disease and shit. _Is this where they put Father? Was he down here, while I tried to convince Cersei to spare his life?_

Keys rattled and the door groaned. When it opened, a spear of sunlight pierced the gloom and drew a silhouette around a short, filthy man with Lannister hair and the gait of a cripple. Chains rattled between his stubby feet and twisted hands, and he still wore the rich doublet he'd put on for the wedding, ruined though it was by tearing and grime.

And she couldn't be happier to see him.

"Lady Sansa," Tyrion began, his voice croaking, but he had nothing else to say.

"Of what crime are we accused?" she blurted out. _I have little time, and no patience for games._ "What evidence? Have they told you anything?"

Three men in armor - one in Lannister red and gold, the other two Kingsguard in white - opened the door the rest of the way, spilling sunlight into her cell. Suddenly she realized that her gray wedding gown was black with dirt, her hair was tangled and greasy, and she stunk worse than she looked. If Tyrion noticed, he was too polite to make a jape.

He shrugged and his chains rattled. "I was hoping they told you."

"Kingslaying, obviously," came a distinguished voice from one of the armored men.

"Uncle Kevan is rarely forthcoming with the details," Tyrion said, turning back to him and offering a crooked bow. "But it would be helpful if he made an exception at least a few minutes before we are hanged."

"I have been occupied by the business of the realm," Kevan grumbled. "You left it in a sorry state, which I can only assume was deliberate, meant to weaken us against Stannis Baratheon's attack. You managed quite a feat, I'll give you that, but you are still a kinslaying turncloak, if an accomplished one."

"So sabotage is added to the list of crimes," Tyrion droned.

 _I can_ _'t take this anymore._ "I didn't kill any king!" Sansa shouted. "Let me _out_ of here!"

She surprised herself by slamming both open palms on the cage bars. It was a quick strike, sudden and shocking, and though the heels of her hand stung from the impact she got the desired effect. Echoes reverberated off the bare stone and iron all around them, making Kevan wince and Tyrion smile in approval.

"Enough of that, woman," Ser Kevan said. "Your protests do not erase your crime, no matter how impassioned. It was _your_ wolf at the scene, and I am supposed to believe it happened in both places at the same time? Just a coincidence, you say?"

 _Both places? What is he talking about?_ Tyrion glanced at Sansa, then back at Kevan. "I would raise my palms in an exaggerated shrug, but this chain is too short." He tugged on the manacles connecting his wrist and ankle bindings to demonstrate his plight.

"Nevermind." Ser Kevan shut his eyes for a second, then shook his head. "You were caught attempting to flee the city. The attack happened moments after you disappeared. I see little use for a trial in his case."

"Flee the city?" Tyrion said, incredulous. "From the godswood?" _You_ _'re not that far off._

"From your escape tunnel in the Tower of the Hand," Ser Kevan said, as if talking to a child. "Yes, we found it."

Tyrion's face betrayed a moment of horror, but Sansa had no idea what he was talking about. There was a trapdoor under her fireplace, but it was supposed to lead to the courtyard, not any tunnel. _Did Ser Dontos dig a tunnel? No, that_ _'s impossible._

"Why I agreed to this, I will never understand," Ser Kevan said, mourning his patience. "I suppose I wanted to give my poor nephew a moment's reprieve, for Joanna's sake. You could have done the decent thing and confessed."

"You can't deny us a trial," Sansa said. _Could they?_ "You can't bring me up to the Great Sept like you did my father. You can't."

"Not to the Great Sept, no," Ser Kevan said without looking at her. "That was an ugly thing. I'd prefer not to hang a woman at all, but the law must be followed. Your husband knows the law."

Sansa had not put much thought into whether she would prefer a hanging or a beheading. _At least they can bury me intact._ But there was little material difference between the two. Dead is dead, and she found the arrangements for her corpse to be of little interest. Ser Kevan almost seemed to be speaking in his brother's voice, as countless people had accused him of doing his whole life, and a Lannister patriarch was not one to change his mind once it is made up. Tyrion had called him a logical man once, but that man seemed to have fled the castle when Joffrey died. _I have to compose myself. I have to bring that rational man back._

"Ser Kevan," she said, stepping back from the bars. He turned to face her with a quizzical look on his face, so she bowed her head in submission and clasped her hands. "I have been distraught with worry for my husband. Please forgive me. I would like to begin again."

He was silent for a long moment, and hidden as his face was by the shadows, she could not quite read his reaction. When he finally answered, his voice was soft. "Continue."

Sansa looked to her husband first. Tyrion's face was solemn, the jokes long spent, and he gave her a short nod of approval. _I have to ensure a trial._ She made her argument. "A royal death is a beacon for gossip and terrible rumors, and we all know those rumors turn to sedition, treason, and outright rebellion soon after."

"That's true," Tyrion interjected, pointing with both chained hands for effect. "Remember Robert? He was killed on a hunt by a pig, drowning in witnesses, and we still got ourselves into a mess of riots and civil war. Now his son's been murdered in the streets. Imagine the bedlam."

 _He_ _'s trying to help._ Sansa wanted to glare at him for the interruption, but appearances were everything, so she smiled and nodded slightly. "The realm is in a precarious state, even before the loss of our king, and I believe a public trial would better settle the issue forever. Let them see the truth, and let the rumors be squashed. I'm sure my husband agrees."

"A trial by the Faith," Tyrion said, before his uncle could respond.

"You mean a High Septon that _you_ appointed," Ser Kevan drawled.

"I mean an impartial third party of impeccable reputation. Let the gods look on the evidence and decide."

Ser Kevan chewed on his nephew's words, shuffling his feet and sliding just a few inches out of the shadows and into the ray of sunlight from the door. Despite the near darkness, Sansa thought she saw a hint of red on his face. _Is he ashamed of something?_ Finally, he cleared his throat and made his response. "You do not trust King Tommen to dispense justice?"

Tyrion snorted. "His Hand would sign the death warrant, not his hand, if you get my meaning. When my father returns from the campaign, he'll be tripping over himself to rid his legacy of an unwanted heir." The humor once again disappeared from his face. "I don't particularly trust you, either."

 _Don_ _'t antagonize him._ Sansa wondered why exactly Tyrion leapt straight to a trial by the Faith, when a council of great lords might be better suited. Was he afraid that Mace Tyrell would vote poorly to curry favor? Would they simply delay the trial so Tywin could kill his son? Truth was on their side, and though the Faith hated the pagans and their tree worship, Sansa looked and acted more like a Riverlander than a northerner. She could talk her way through the challenge, and besides, Lady was dead. _I need a witness._ That little revelation would destroy the accusation outright.

Sansa resisted the urge to drop the trump card right then and there. "My husband is cursed with a loose tongue," she said instead, faking her best smile. "He is too honest, and when he feels wronged, he strikes out at the world. I hope you will forgive him."

"Distractions," Ser Kevan muttered to himself.

"Let the faith handle the details," Tyrion said. "Don't pretend to play the callous dealer of death, my beloved uncle. It never suited you. You proved me right the moment you agreed to take me here."

"He wouldn't shut his mouth about it," Ser Kevan said to Sansa, as if somehow obligated to explain himself. "I threatened to take his tongue, and still he demanded to see his pretty little wife. Wanted to know she lived." He turned to Tyrion. "Well, you've seen her, and if I had to guess, I'd say she'll live exactly as long as you will, aside from the delay of the drop."

"Funny," Tyrion said, but his demeanor told her he in no way found that funny. "We must have time to organize a defense. We can call witnesses to testify, just as the Iron Throne will. It's only fair."

"Fine," Ser Kevan snapped.

Both Sansa and Tyrion stood in silence, looking at one another in a mix of surprise and relief. _I can_ _'t believe that worked!_ "And we'll need-"

Ser Kevan waved a hand to cut Tyrion off before he could get too greedy. "A trial of the Faith. You'll have your time alone, and you can give me a list of witnesses." He sighed. "That bitch won't let me hear the end of it, I promise you."

 _Cersei will be a problem._ But who had been there, besides the Queen of course, on the day she'd ordered Lady killed? Could she get her on the witness stand, make her swear an oath before the gods, and somehow trick the truth out of her? Her father was dead, Jory was dead, the Hound deserted her, and-

"Ser Ilyn!" she shouted.

The both of them flinched and looked at her strangely. "I thought I would offer the noose to spare your dignity," Ser Kevan said, "but if you-"

"My witness," she said. _A mute sadist will save me. My father_ _'s killer will save me._ "I want my first witness to be Ser Ilyn Payne, the royal headsman. He will exonerate me, I am sure of it."

Tyrion approached the bars, checking over his shoulder to see if his uncle would stop him, but he made no move. "Sansa," he whispered, "what in the seven hells are you talking about?"

"Trust me," she whispered back, then stood up straight and looked the Hand in the eye. "I will give you a further list, but Ser Ilyn is my star witness. I promise."

Kevan spoke slowly with an even tone. "Ser Ilyn is not literate. It will be quite impossible to glean his testimony."

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_ "I-" she started, but she found her tongue suddenly numb, as if pulled out by pincers.

"I am sure we will find others," Tyrion said, grinning and shrugging as if her lunatic outburst were no matter at all. "Someone who can either speak or write, or maybe both, if we are very lucky. Or make signs with his hands, or signal his recollections with a heavy blanket and a bonfire. Ser Ilyn speaks in steel and blood, and I do not know any living interpreters of that language."

 _Where are you, Sandor Clegane?_ The Queen of Thorns said he was at the Twins, but could it be true? She thought back to that night not so long ago, when the terrible battle raged outside the walls, a fleet burned and a claim died, and the Hound had come to take her away but only won a kiss and a song. _I could have escaped. I was such a fool._ If he'd really gone over to Robb Stark she could have been with him the entire time. She could have been reunited with her mother and brother, her only living relatives. _And Jon Snow. I will see him again, someday._

Instead, she was dumped in a cage and left to enjoy her own filth, forced to marry a crippled dwarf and facing the hangman's noose if she couldn't find a way to regrow a murderer's tongue. She thought of the assembled dead from the day Lady had died: King Robert, of course, his brother Renly, all the rest of her father's men, Jeyne Poole most likely, and still more that she was forgetting. Ser Jaime had hunted for Nymeria but he would just parrot the Queen's ravings, so he was no use. And Arya. So young, lost among a city of corpses. _She was always so fierce. My wolf sister, my packmate._

They were looking at her again, and she realized she was crying. Sansa wiped away the tears and sniffled, then broke away from Tyrion's gaze. _I can_ _'t stand it when he looks at me like that. I am not to be pitied._ Ser Kevan, for his part, cleared his throat and turned away.

"Just a few minutes," she whispered.

He nodded without turning around to face them and, incredibly, he left. The door shut and left them alone in the darkness with only the iron bars between them.

"Can I ask why Ser Ilyn?" Tyrion said softly.

"My wolf is long dead," she said. "She died before I came to King's Landing. Not Arya's, but mine, and your mute illiterate headsman is one of the precious few living witnesses."

Tyrion thought that over for a moment. "That _is_ rather compelling. And a strange case of bad luck, I might add. You are certain nobody else saw the wolf dead? A Lannister guardsman, perhaps?"

"Even if there were one willing to speak out against the Queen," she said, "I wouldn't know his name, nor remember his face."

"They _do_ all look alike, don't they? What names _can_ you recall?"

She listed all the people present and how they'd died. Raymun Darry was another witness, but he'd perished fighting the Mountain soon after. "Which leaves my brother," Tyrion said, when the names were exhausted. "Perhaps I can wring the truth out of him, and we'll leave it to Cersei to weave a story where you managed to train a new wolf while confined in the Red Keep."

"You think he will support us?"

"Not really."

 _Thank you for the vote of confidence._ "I have a question for you. Why did you ask for the Faith to judge you, and not a council of great lords? Are you afraid that Mace Tyrell-"

He stopped her with a single finger raised to her lips. "The High Septon and I are cock cousins. Do you know what that is?"

She had long gotten used to his sudden shifts into crass language, so the words did not phase her. She only shook her head.

The little man grinned. "We slept with the same whore."

They had even less time than promised. Ser Kevan came back and hauled Tyrion away, leaving Sansa alone in her cell for hours that stretched into days. The gaolers came and delivered her food, swapped out her bucket, and even switched her to a clean cell while they scrubbed the other one. Even with all that time she could not think of a better tactic, or some plausible explanation for Joffrey's death, one which made it clear that she had nothing to do with it.

 _A wolf? Whose wolf?_ She tried to ask the gaolers if they had heard anything useful, but only got the predictable scowls and grumbles in return. _Silenced by royal command._ If an animal really did attack him as people claimed, it could have been Grey Wind. Robb's wolf was a killer of men to be sure, but wasn't he still by his side in the Riverlands? Rickon had named his wolf something silly, like Shaggydog, and as far as she knew Bran hadn't named his at all. When they died, where did the wolves go?

After a week alone with nothing to talk to besides stone walls, silent gaolers, and the gods, they finally came to give her a bath.

It was palace servants who had the job, and the three of them all turned up their noses the moment they had a look at her. She stripped and lay down in the steaming hot water, and the instant she did so the hardness in her muscles cried out in anguish. Weeks sleeping on a thin cot had left her with so many dull aches she had forgotten all about them, but as the heat melted them away she settled down and let her head droop back, eyes closed, and the world around her vanished for a few blissful minutes.

When she opened her eyes the water was brown and murky. Two of the servants rushed off to get a fresh tub while the last one scrubbed her hair, swore softly to herself, and probably grimaced and retched all the way. The knots tore at Sansa's scalp and it was all she could do to not cry out in pain.

The second tub held up better, and pretty soon the servants were brushing her shiny, auburn hair straight down her back. _When they trotted out Father, they_ _'d denied him such luxuries._ She scrubbed her own skin and when she got out of the tub she was pale, shivering, wrinkles at the fingertips, and above all else, finally clean. The servants handed her a shift and a long, demure gray dress that reminded her immediately of her ruined Stark gown. _To stress that I am the traitor_ _'s sister._ They did not offer her jewels or anything in the form of beautification besides the bath and the dress, but she took them with compliments and followed the servants upstairs, past the gawking gaolers and into the main floor of the Red Keep where Ser Kevan Lannister waited.

 _The air isn_ _'t much better up here._ "My Lord Hand," she said, with a short curtsy.

He looked her up and down for a second, but not in the way most men eyed her, then grunted and replied with a slight nod. "You'll do. I'm afraid I've had no luck with your Ser Ilyn, and Tyrion's list of witnesses is blank. The hearing with the High Septon is beginning in a few moments."

Sansa's jaw dropped. "The trial? But I'm not ready! What do you mean about Ser Ilyn? We have to have _some_ time-"

"Not the trial," Ser Kevan said, holding up a palm. "The hearing. The High Septon himself will adjudicate every step of the way, starting with your testimony. No judgment will be rendered, no confrontation of the witness enforced." He sighed and stared off into space. "Just tell them what happened, and be honest. There's no sense lying when the Seven are watching."

 _Will the Father cast me down if I do?_ Sansa steeled herself. "The truth is on my side, and I am not afraid of his questions. Will I hear from Cersei's witnesses?"

The Hand grimaced and looked down at her feet. "I'm afraid so. I want you to know to keep your expectations low. The Queen has been busy, and she is utterly convinced of your guilt."

"And yourself?"

When he'd brought Tyrion to her cell, Ser Kevan had begun by blustering about certainty and evidence, but that had blown right out of him in minutes, and Sansa guessed that he wasn't as convinced about their guilt as he claimed to be. At her question, Kevan hesitated for a few long seconds, then sighed in defeat. "It doesn't matter what I think. The evidence is too strong and the Queen's job too easy. I'm afraid the two of you will die together on the end of a rope. But never let it be said that I failed to grant you a fair trial. Through your last moments, I'd have you acknowledge that I tried my best."

He couldn't even answer the question. _Tywin_ _'s brother is a cub._ "Well, what are we waiting for?"

The High Septon did not greet or acknowledge her as she entered the room. Unsurprisingly the Faith had chosen a Sept within the castle itself for the hearing, though they'd shoved all the pews aside to make room for a long table against the back and a lone chair sitting in the middle of the floor for the accused. The High Septon sat at the table's center with three Septas on one side and three Septons on the other, one for each of the gods. _The Seven judge me. Tyrion would make a joke about hubris._ Ser Kevan beckoned for her to sit, so she swallowed her anxiety, clasped her hands at her waist, and stepped forward slowly, deliberately, with her head held high and her posture straight, and took the seat of the indicted.

The Sept was a beautiful place, with stained glass images of the Seven illuminated by the sun above. _So it is the early afternoon._ The windows were spread too far around the Sept to match all seven judges, but the High Septon's seat was placed directly in front of the center window with so the light could drape him in a halo and force Sansa to squint against the glare. While Sansa could only guess which of the Seven each judge conceited to represent, the stern face of the father looming over the High Septon's head was as subtle as beating her over the head with a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star.

She looked back over her shoulder, but Kevan was gone, shuffled out the door without a word. A separate table stood in the far back corner, where a young man sat with a feather pen, parchment, and ink set. Other than the scribe and the judges, Sansa was alone.

"At least this one's been bathed," an older Septon grumbled. His fellows laughed along, but nobody addressed her directly. _So Tyrion has already spoken._

"Where are the witnesses? The girl is clearly a mute," a stern, middle-aged Septa said. She was incredibly tall, moreso than Sansa or most men she'd known, broad at the shoulders with a flat face, square jaw, and tight cracked lips. _I_ _'m sure she brags about her maidenhood, but she could pass for the crone._ "Well, kingslayer, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Sansa was speechless for a few seconds, but she blinked and fetched her words before they could throw her out. _I expected this to be more formal._ "I am innocent of the King's murder and I have no special knowledge of who committed it, or why. I was with my husband when we heard the screams. We ran, and after we made it to the safety of the Red Keep, we were both arrested. I've only heard rumors-"

"-that's enough," the ugly woman said, waving a calloused hand. "You fled your carriage, then, and escaped from the safety of the Kingsguard and your husband's sworn men? I am supposed to believe that?"

Sansa looked to the High Septon, but he was leaning back in his seat with his hands folded over lap, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes were open, but otherwise he could have been asleep. "We were not in the carriage," she said, then turned back to the Septa. "My husband and I wanted to walk."

She snorted. "Walk? Across half the city? One rich, defenseless dwarf, and one hated traitor's sister decided to just go for a walk? Haven't enough Starks died in this city to make you think about your safety?"

Sansa froze, her mouth wide open, but the Septa waited patiently to hear what she had to say. "We were talking, and the carriage wasn't private, and-"

"About what?" she said. "I would love to know what traitors discuss in private. Besides work, I mean. I am a scholar first, and I never miss an opportunity to learn something about other people, no matter how sickening their secrets might be to the conscience."

"I'm sorry," Sansa said, her mouth suddenly dry, "what did you say your name was?"

Her grin was like a snake's snout, and if she'd tasted the air with a forked tongue in that very moment Sansa would not have been surprised. Instead, she smiled and laughed at her with her eyes. "I didn't. Septa Unella."

 _I_ _'ve planned for this._ "Septa Unella," Sansa said, "my husband and I were speaking in private, and you are not privileged to know the topic." She looked over the High Septon to the stained glass above. "I will tell the Father when I meet him, and noone else."

Unella scowled but the High Septon grunted and sat up straight in his chair, blinking and staring at Sansa as if he'd only just now realized she was there. "The witness- the accused, I mean," he stammered, then coughed heavily and wheezed. "The accused will answer the question."

The Septa's scowl turned back into a predator's grin. "Treason is never private," she said. Sansa imagined acid dripping down her rectangular chin and pooling on the desk as she spoke. "And invoking the Father does you little good. Would you be more comfortable having this conversation outside, where the trees can hear? Or I could open a window and you could howl your confession, if it pleases you."

 _Don_ _'t let them see you stumble._ "I would make my confession to my mother's gods," Sansa said, "if I had any confession to make."

"The accused has ignored the question of why she and her conspirator vanished shortly before the killing," Septa Unella announced proudly. "Let it be known and recorded. We will move on."

She picked up a stack of papers and pretended to rifle through them, as if searching for the next line of questioning. _Don_ _'t pretend you haven't been salivating over every word._ "Ah," she said, setting down the stack. "The godswood. You were found in the godswood, communicating with the demons who cast your spell, were you not?"

 _It doesn_ _'t even have a weirwood tree._ "The Old Gods do not speak," Sansa said, "and they do not grant us power or perform magic on our behalf. They only listen, and that day they listened to me pray for the king's safety. I was too late."

The High Septon stirred again. "The King's safety? But you had no knowledge of the attack, hmm? It was all news to you when the soldiers scooped you up?"

"I heard Margaery's scream," she explained. "My husband sought to keep me from harm, so he took me by the hand and we raced to a place in one of the wide avenues where he knew he could find City Watchmen to protect us."

Septa Unella scoffed. "What luck, then! You found a gold cloak instead of a red dagger, buried in your belly. I'm surprised your husband didn't lead you to one of his brothels instead."

Before Sansa could react, the High Septon shifted in the Septa's direction. "That wasn't a question, Unella."

She turned her usual scowl on him this time, then huffed and turned up her chin. "I have only one other question: are you still a maid, Lady Lannister?"

 _What kind of question is that?_ The Septa had asked the question without even looking down to her, but stared at the High Septon instead, as if challenging him to challenge her. He only shrugged, then waved his bony fingers at her and cleared his throat. Sansa took a deep breath to stall for a few precious seconds. _What is she getting at? Where is the trap?_

She thought of what her father would do. _Tell the truth,_ his ghost spoke in her mind. _I did not tell the truth, and it cost me my head._ Hadn't Tyrion already answered these questions? What did he say? If their answers did not match, the questions would only dig deeper and one of them would face a scourge for lying to the gods. So, she did what her father taught her, what came naturally and automatically, and she put her faith in the gods to reward her honesty.

"Yes. I am a maid."

 _That_ got everyone's attention. The Septons, a girthy one in particular, all turned away from their boredom and distractions to gaze longingly at her body underneath the modest dress. She was suddenly more alone and exposed than ever, sitting in that little chair in the middle of the room with hungry eyes on her from all angles and no allies to speak in her defense. Even a younger Septa who probably represented the Maid joined in the feast, but when Sansa caught her eye she blinked and looked away.

"Yes, what of it?" Sansa snapped. _Careful._ She measured her tone. "My husband has not yet asked me to submit to him, so I have not."

Septa Unella was pleased, but probably for a different reason than a wandering eye. "The marriage is nothing until it is consummated," she said, "and so we have a Stark girl here, not a Lannister woman. The truth sets you free, as it were, but maybe not in the way you'd hope. Do you know what we do to spies in war?"

 _Who is_ _'we'?_ "I have had no contact at all outside of the city," Sansa insisted. "I have no friends but my husband and the gods. I-"

"That supposed husband of yours has enough friends to make up for it," Unella said. "Doesn't it bother you, though? He ignores you for the company of whores and foreign freaks?"

"It's probably for the better," an older Septon said, speaking for the first time. "Can you imagine what sort of pox that vile dwarf carries around on him? Poor girl would be dead in a week if she as much as looked at that twisted little cock."

 _It isn_ _'t twisted._ "How he spends his time is his privilege, and none of my business. I simply wait for the day where he takes his pleasure."

"Is it boy whores, then?" the cock-imagining Septon went on. "Is that it? Because I'm looking at you now, and I can't picture why the dwarf wouldn't crawl into your bed and pump you full twice a night. Maybe he prefers the boy whores, hmm, that would explain it." He looked to the others for affirmation, as if he had stumbled on some great discovery. When they ignored him, he just shrugged and mumbled incoherently to himself.

"You should have at least fucked him the night before you killed the king," Septa Unella said. The High Septon almost said something in protest, but she glared at him and he settled back down. "I will restate that as a question," she seethed. "Why didn't you secure the protection of your marriage, knowing you would soon turn your cloak and murder your king?"

 _This is Tyrion_ _'s fault. He wanted a trial by the Faith, not me._ "I planned no treason, no murder, and no act that required extra protection beyond that of a guest under the Queen's roof," Sansa said. She looked at the High Septon as she answered, which she hoped only irritated her questioner more. "Whether I wear the Lannister cloak or merely eat the Lannister's bread and salt, I am under the protection of the head of the Lannister household. I do believe his name is Tywin Lannister. He is the very same Tywin Lannister who arranged my marriage with the goal of producing grandsons who may one day rule in Winterfell, at a time that my lord husband deems appropriate." _I am invoking Tywin Lannister_ _'s name to protect myself. The world has gone mad._

"You are correct," the High Septon quickly said, drawing a glare as hot as the sun from Sansa's enemy. He chuckled softly to himself. "The Septa would have me deny the law to bring justice to a breaker of the law. Seems a backwards way to go about things. What was I saying?" He stopped to take a deep breath, and Sansa wasn't sure if he was distracted by some internal Septic politics, or just getting old. "Ah yes," he finally said, "you are correct about your first statement, that the law places you under the protection under the Lord Lannister. What you were wrong about was his name."

 _Please, not another surprise._ "I'm sorry?"

"She hasn't heard?" the older Septon exclaimed. He turned to her. "You haven't heard?"

Sansa was at a loss. "I've been in the cell. I haven't-"

"Tywin Lannister is dead," Septa Unella said, grinning. "The Lord Lannister is now named Tyrion, and he is your husband and co-conspirator. His reign is doomed to be a short one, don't you think?"

 _It happened in both places._ Ser Kevan had said something along those lines when he brought Tyrion to visit, but he had changed the subject before she could pursue the question. "Can I ask how my father-in-law died?"

The High Septon sighed. "Your brother's war wolf," he said. "at the Battle of the Crossing. As long as a lizard lion from snout to tail, as tall as a grown man when standing on all fours. The beast led a pack of its lessers to break the Lannister forces and shred Lord Tywin's throat in his own tent. Our king died the same way, at the same time, and on the same day, but from _your_ direwolf instead of the other one, as Ser Kevan's own investigation has revealed. Some say Robb Stark turned into a wolf himself, but the Old Gods do not grant such power, or any power at all, as you have already explained. I have already disavowed testimony that places you as fleeing the scene nude and with your mouth and neck covered in the king's blood. Violence and terror often warps the fragile minds of the common folk."

 _Thank you for that, at least._ The High Septon paused for a long, awkward moment, until Sansa realized he was done speaking and waiting for her response. "I grieve for my father," she said, looking down at her feet as if offering a silent prayer. Someone scoffed at her, probably Unella, but she didn't flinch. _I wasn_ _'t lying, you bitch._ She looked up and met the High Septon's eyes. "But as I had made an error about Lord Tywin's fate, you have done the same about my direwolf. Her name was Lady, and she is quite dead."

A Septon snorted. "Of course it is." _She._

"Do you offer any proof, Lady Lannister?" the High Septon said.

 _At least you gave me a chance._ Just as she had told Tyrion during their brief time together, she related the story of Nymeria and Joffrey, though with her current audience she had to be careful not to disparage the late king and shift the blame to the wolf instead. _I_ _'m so sorry, Arya._ When she mentioned Lady's death the judges turned to one another and whispered too low for her to hear. She waited patiently for them to finish, then continued her story.

"I was taken prisoner in King's Landing soon after," she said, "and until my wedding, I have been unable to leave the Red Keep without an escort." _Even now, my husband sends me places._ "I've had no opportunity to train a new direwolf, if I could even find one south of the Wall."

"The Queen has already told us this story," the High Septon said, "and she has made it clear that the other wolf was put down for its crimes. Your late sister's wolf, to be specific. Yours remained at large until you used your newfound freedom to sneak it inside our walls and attack the king." He cleared his throat and took a long breath. "Or, so the accusation goes. I want the record to be clear: your testimony today is that the Queen's recollection is backwards, is that correct?"

"An irrelevant distinction," Septa Unella snapped. "Whether the traitor's daughter used her wolf or her sister's is of no consequence."

"I believe the Lady Lannister's point is that she would not be able to command the lost animal," he said to her.

Unella scowled. "She can answer for herself."

"The High Septon is right," Sansa said.

"I believe the Lady Lannister has made her position clear," the High Septon said. "Do my fellows have any further questions?" He looked from judge to judge. "If the lady has no further testimony to add, then we can conclude this hearing."

"Will I have an opportunity to confront the witnesses against me?" Sansa asked.

"At trial," he said. "You, or an advocate who might agree to serve as your agent. Until then, you will be given accommodations according to your station."

For the first time since Margaery's scream, Sansa's heart soared. Septa Unella sputtered in protest and one of the older Septons complained somewhat more coherently that the accused does not deserve the luxury of a room in a tower. "She is merely accused, not yet convicted," the High Septon argued. "She is a Lannister of status and deserving of a fitter cell."

"Thank you," Sansa breathed, flushing with genuine relief and gratitude. Finally, _someone_ was no longer presuming her guilt. "I will wait for the Faith to prepare the trial, and when the time comes, I will be ready to prove my innocence."

"She is _not_ a Lannister," Septa Unella growled.

The High Septon sighed and looked to her. "Come again?"

"Until the marriage is consummated," she said through clenched teeth, "she is nothing but a traitor's whelp, stripped of title and claim from both sides of her family. The gods only know why Tywin Lannister arranged such a marriage for his heir, but until the dwarf does his duty, she is no Lannister."

He shrugged. "The Imp will have a few days to muster the courage. I will be sending him to the same cell." _Oh, gods._ "Come back to us a woman, Lady Lannister."

 _Cock cousins._


	11. Tyrion III

TYRION

The Faith chose the ugliest women they could find to look upon the nakedness of the ugliest man he knew. Namely, himself. The three plain-faced and square-shouldered Septas handled him as they might a babe, scrubbing him clean and dressing him in a child's finery. The dimensions were all wrong, of course, too loose in places and too tight in others. _I suppose I haven_ _'t been humiliated enough._ He was to be consigned to a newer, fancier prison, so the gaolers had explained, and he'd wondered why they couldn't bathe him _before_ his hearing. After he was cleaned and dressed, Lannister guardsmen led him out of the dungeon and up to the Tower of the Hand, then shoved him into a tiny guest quarter built with a lock that couldn't be opened from the inside. The red cloaks slammed the door shut, the locking mechanism clanked into place, and he was alone in the little room with his thoughts.

That, and an ink set. _At least I can write my last testament._ He briefly considered penning a journal cursing the world for all its injustice, but before he wasted a square inch of parchment, it occurred to him that, if guilty, anything he wrote would probably be thrown in a fire. _I ought to dedicate the time to survival instead of posterity._ With self-aggrandizement momentarily out of the question, he jotted down some legal arguments in a phonetic style, then spent hours saying them to the bare stone walls until he felt confident in the structure and language. _If only I could have given notes to Sansa for her testimony._

They'd only had a few minutes to talk, less than his uncle promised, and she'd used almost all of it telling the story about the wolves and the spoiled prince. Tyrion smiled at the mental image of a little girl disarming him and throwing his sword in the river. _And we killed her for it, eventually. Yet another tragedy on the ledger._ He was ruminating on Ned Stark's arrest and execution when the lock clicked and the well-oiled door swung open, the only sound a woosh of air rushing into the cell. On the other side was Tyrion's lady wife.

They looked at each other for a silent moment. "My partner in crime," he finally said, then swung his legs over the side of the chair and hopped out. "I didn't know we'd have the chance to continue our conspiracy."

The Lannister soldier behind her coughed, and, with hesitation in her posture, she stepped forward so he could close and lock the door. She glanced around their little love suite, from a single hard bed in the corner to the small desk that Tyrion had appropriated for his defense work. A knee-high chest full of servant's clothes functioned as a wardrobe, and a small water basin sat on the windowsill, the other end of which was both shuttered and barred. The room lacked a chamber pot, which Tyrion hoped meant they would be allowed to use the privy down the hallway.

"It's a closet," she said, sighing. "I had expected more."

"Better than bars and buckets," Tyrion said.

Sansa pointed to the would-be window and the bars blocking access to the shutters. "A taste of home."

"I'll sleep on the floor. I can make a pillow out of the rags they've left us." Tyrion tried his most disarming smile. "It'll be good for my back."

"You arranged this, didn't you?"

Though her tone was flat, her eyes narrowed and her face flushed bright red. Tyrion gulped and shuffled his feet. _Careful, now._ "They've assigned us the worst seat in the house, but at least we're in a house. I assure you, this has taken me entirely by surprise."

"You wanted your friend running the trial," she spat. "You wanted to put me in this position from the beginning. Do you take me for an idiot? You could have forced me any time you wanted, but that would weigh too heavy on the conscience, wouldn't it?"

 _Alright, so she obviously isn_ _'t talking about the room or the bed._ Tyrion locked his eyes with hers, but she refused to back down. Her back was arched as if ready to pounce, her fists were clenched and she twisted her face into a snarl. _Disarm, disarm, disarm._ "I said I would never force you and I meant it," he said, soft and earnest. "I will never manipulate you, either. Sansa, please tell me what happened."

She closed her eyes and relaxed her posture. _My Stark honesty took a bit of the wind out of her sails._ "They've declared me disinherited and common born," she said, "and undeserving of the privilege of peerage."

"But you're-"

"Not a Lannister," she said, cutting him off. "They expect the marriage to be consummated by the time the trial begins."

Tyrion's jaw dropped. _Did he set that up, thinking I would appreciate it?_ "Sansa, I swear I had nothing to do with that. I never gave the High Septon any ideas of the sort."

Their cold bed was an open secret around the Red Keep, but if he were to insist it had warmed considerably, the court would be forced to accept his word as proof that he'd taken his lordly privilege. _It_ _'s a bit late for the bloody bedsheet._ There was also risk of invasive examination, but Tyrion had a lord's word and a man on the inside to countermand silly things like truth and facts. Besides, who would believe he hadn't done his duty? Unless his cock was known to shrivel at the sight of incredibly beautiful women, and he'd certainly taken great pains to establish the opposite, the public at large would just assume they were man and wife in all the ways that concerned the court.

His pants actually tightened at the thought. _This is not the fucking time, you little monster._ She was as tall and womanly as ever, a perfect mix of healthy youth and elegant beauty. She had been filthy and bedraggled in the dungeons, but she'd been bathed in the interim, and her ivory skin and auburn hair glowed under the bare beam of light trickling in from the window. Tyrion never made up his mind on whether he preferred his women chaste or lusty, often switching up depending on who he was looking at and how much they charged, but right then he couldn't take his eyes off the long grey dress that covered her skin to the neck and clung to her curves. _She_ _'s due for a bigger size, in all the right places._

She blushed, then scowled at him and looked around as if trying to find a place to hide. _Great. She escapes the panel of perverts only to be imprisoned with one._ "Sansa," he said, clearing his throat and looking away. "I'll try to give you some privacy. Maybe we can partition the room somehow."

"I think I'll just lay down," she said quietly, and crawled into bed.

After a few moments, he risked a glance back to his frigid wife. She had her back turned with the sheet pulled up over her shoulder, and he stared at the back of her head. She shifted suddenly and looked back at him. They locked eyes for a few moments, but her face revealed nothing except a faint frown. He looked away and heard the sheets rustle as she turned back to face the wall.

Tyrion sighed and muttered a soft curse to his stack of parchments. "And now my watch begins."

He'd spent a week on a thin cot in a dungeon, and the experience had made him not just accustomed to, but actually _preferring_ the hard tile and pile of rolled linens that served as his bedding. _At least they_ _'re clean._ After he took a quick trip to the privy to relieve himself in every sense of the word, he laid down for a quick nap that turned unexpectedly into an uninterrupted full night's sound sleep. Dawn was crawling through the window when he awoke, albeit only the faintest edges of light through the cracks in the shutters, but it promised to be as sunny and bright as any southron autumn morning. _I hope the weather holds for my hanging._

Sansa had stepped over him at some point during the night to sit at their desk and read through his notes. She glanced down at him from the chair when he stirred, but turned back to the desk with a blank expression on her face. _Good morning to you too, my sweet wife._ He yawned, massaged his thighs and rose to shaky feet.

"I didn't realize how much I needed that," he said, rubbing his eyes.

She shrugged. "I tossed and turned all night."

"We're going to be fine," he said, though he wasn't sure if he believed himself. "The High Septon is on our side, I promise. He's only let things drag out for appearance's sake." _I sure as hell hope so._

"I suppose it's a good sign that they've put us together," Sansa said. Tyrion's stomach twisted with guilt, and he must have shown it on his face, because Sansa shook her head. "No, I don't blame you for that. I believe you. Nobody has asked for proof, so we can just tell them we've gotten it overwith."

 _This is by far the least arousing coupling I_ _'ve ever been forced into._ He'd mulled over Sansa's plan already and was waffling on the decision. It was risky because, for all he knew, Cersei could have set up a trap to catch them lying to the Faith. "They haven't asked for proof _yet,_ " he said. "One of those delightful Septas may examine you."

She grimaced and unconsciously rubbed her stomach. "It'll be the ox with the farmer's hands, probably."

Tyrion laughed. "What a delightful woman. Can't imagine why she chose a life of chastity."

The happy couple started comparing their experience with the hearing and testimony. He'd had to go in front of the gods with the stench of the dungeon all about him, but Sansa had been at least allowed to bathe. _A woman is more harshly judged for these things._ Otherwise they'd had nearly identical questions, and he was relieved when he learned that they both told the truth about their sexless marriage. After half an hour she was smiling and even laughing softly at his barbs about Septa Oxen and the panel of elderly lechers, pathologically celibate people who clambered to know all of their bedroom secrets for lack of their own. _Gossipers lead the most boring lives._

He was in the middle of a pun about plows and an activity that Septa Unella was unfamiliar with when someone knocked.

They both froze and stared at the door, waiting for it to reveal its secrets. Tyrion felt a brief moment of panic, then laughed at himself for being ridiculous. "Who dares disturb our lustful matrimony?"

"Lord Tyrion, the hearing resumes shortly," came his uncle's voice.

 _Lord Tyrion. I can get used to that._ "You can open the door. We're decent, I promise."

For lack of any activity sweaty enough to require another bath, they merely changed out of the clothes they'd worn to bed and followed Ser Kevan to the Sept, messy hair and all. A half dozen Lannister men accompanied them, but Ser Kevan kept a slow pace while he caught them up on what Cersei's assembled witnesses planned to say. "I'm sure they'll be virtuous and true," Tyrion drawled.

"Will Ser Ilyn be there?" Sansa asked as they walked.

Ser Kevan nodded. "He will, but he can only answer with a yes or a no. The High Septon could simply fail to ask him the right questions. You've depending on a mute killer of ill reputation for your entire case, and you're walking a razor's edge if you don't dig up better evidence."

 _Oh, you_ _'re in for a surprise._ "There's always the trial and confrontation," Tyrion said. "Sansa could destroy Cersei's case with a nod and a shake of the head."

"He is a knight," Sansa said. "He's from a noble house, and he's a Lannister man by oath. People will believe him."

"Or Cersei got to him first and he confirms her story," his uncle said. "I haven't coached him, and I know you haven't. This could be a disaster."

Though his tone was bleak, Tyrion was overjoyed to hear that somebody in all the Seven Kingdoms was unhappy about his impending death. _At least he_ _'s on my side._ "Why the change of heart?" Tyrion said. "I seem to remember you saying something about nooses and falling. Is our trial no longer a waste of time?"

Ser Kevan blushed. "I've had…time to think, and reason to doubt Cersei's case. The King wants his uncle freed, you should know. Cersei has tried to poison him against you, but he resists."

"A brave boy," Sansa said softly.

"I'm sure it helps that Cersei is the one doing the poisoning," Tyrion said.

The Hand frowned. "He is less warm about Lady Sansa. I will have a difficult time ignoring the King's wishes, no matter how the trial goes."

 _Try to imagine Father saying that._ A brief moment of panic touched Tyrion's chest, and he realized for the first time that Cersei might actually be the power that rules the realm. "Tommen is a reasonable child. He will listen to us, I think."

The Sept loomed in front of them. Ser Kevan stopped and beckoned to the guards on either side of the doors, and they grabbed the huge iron handles, pulled, and revealed a room packed to the rafters with onlookers. Instead of a single chair in the center of the room, the pews were back in their normal place, and well-dressed guests had been invited to fill them. The back corners, too, were full of latecomers and the less well-connected, though it was standing room only and just a sea of legs from Tyrion's point of view. The familiar seven judges sat at the long table in the back, and only the space underneath the windows and down the center aisle were left empty.

The assembled crowd all craned their heads at once to see the new arrivals. _I hope they can hear Ser Ilyn in the back._ "Where's our star witness?"

"Nevermind that," Kevan whispered. "Go to the front." Tyrion froze for a second, expecting jeers and probably rotten fruit if the guards hadn't disarmed everyone, but the crowd stayed silent and allowed the two of them to walk ahead to the open space in the middle of the front row, left pew. Sansa sat down first and smoothed her skirts, while Tyrion took a second to scan the crowd, spotting mostly Lannister bannermen and a few family members including an emaciated Lancel. _He looks ghastly._ The Tyrell contingent sat on the right side of the Sept, minus the absent and grieving widow, and the rest of the crowd consisted of members of the Faith.

And there was Varys. He waved and smiled to Tyrion as if they were old friends delighted to run into one another unexpectedly at a party. _Why is he here?_ The whole setup felt bizarre to him, a mix of the ad-hoc court that tried him in the Eyrie and a more formal Westerosi trial with its orderly procedures and strict legal codes. _At least Tommen won_ _'t be able to throw me out a window._ He looked around on both sides for the king, but neither he nor his mother were anywhere to be seen. Ser Kevan remained at the back of the room near the doors, talking urgently to someone out in the hallway but muffled by a rising murmur in the crowd.

"Tyrion," Sansa whispered, tugging on his sleeve. "Sit down."

A woman's voice pierced the noise in a shout, turning heads once again. Tyrion stared at his uncle and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Don't you think all of this is a bit unusual?"

"When's the last time a pair of kingslayers went on trial?" Sansa hissed. "Stop calling attention to yourself. We're only here to listen."

Ser Kevan abruptly stood aside and Cersei barged through the door. Fury radiated from her body in pulses of heat and anger, and the whole crowd seemed to flinch all at once. Kevan followed her, reaching feebly as if to snatch her flowing golden hair and yank her back out of the Sept, but she was marching with all the grim determination of a vengeful warrior whose mortal enemy waited exposed in the street.

Said enemy was obscured from her vision. _Finally, being short is an asset._ "Where is he?" Cersei shouted, whirling to face Kevan with balled fists. "Where is the little demon? I'll tear his heart out if you've let him come here!"

 _Executions in a Sept, a family tradition._ A withered old Septon sitting next to her hauled himself to his feet, though the cane did most of the work, and reached out to her, speaking too soft for Tyrion to hear. She spared him a half a glance, then whacked him with the back of her hand, sending the old man sprawling back into the pew and into the lap of an equally withered old Septa who tried and failed to catch him. They collapsed in a heap and other priests all around them leapt to their feet, shouting indignations in words entirely unbecoming of their holy persons. They were quickly joined by more secular protesters, a throng of which rose up at once, and whose shouts echoed off the timbers in the bare ceiling and pews, drowning out whatever Kevan was saying and muffling the rest of her shrieks.

Sansa grabbed his hand and forcibly yanked him onto the pew. His hip whacked the edge of the seat and sent pain lancing through his midsection, but she managed to pull him up and over where he lay in the narrow space like a child fallen asleep at service. "Sorry," she whispered, close enough to his ear to pierce the crowd. "Just wait."

"He is not to be harmed!" Kevan's voice rose over the rancor, nearly as deep and authoritative as his late brother's. _Kevan should take such a strong Hand more often._ "The law demands the accused hear the witness testimony so that he can-"

"Weasel his way out?" Cersei shouted back, her voice bouncing off the walls and only mildly muffled by the barrier of people and pews. "You want to help him get away with murder? He killed my _son_!" The power of her words stymied the crowd's energy somewhat, and the protests gave way to her shrieking. "That whore wife of his, that animal fucker, consorting with demons in the shape of wolves and making them do her bidding, it's both of them! Or was it _you_? Is that why you protect them, because you opened the gates and let your king die, just like you did your brother? You kill him all over again when you-"

 _Whack._

It was the unmistakable sound of solid steel striking flesh. Sansa and a hundred more gasped. "Oh, gods. He just hit her," she said. The pesky furniture blocked Tyrion's view, not to mention the obnoxiously tall people standing all around him. "Oh no, he has a gauntlet on. Why did he do that?"

"Woman beater!" someone shouted. "She deserved it!" shouted another. _Thank you for the social commentary, people of Westeros._ The Faith had managed to get these people to stay calm and respectful when the accused had first entered, but they hadn't anticipated a fist fight between royals, and the crowd quickly became little more than an exceptionally well-bred mob. Tyrion tried to sit up and get a look at the damage, but Sansa's pale, ungloved hand snatched up a wad of his hair and shoved him back down. She slouched in her seat and sat still, looking down and away while murmuring prayers to herself and trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. _If only you had a veil for that auburn hair of yours._

"The Kingsguard don't know what to do," Sansa said, barely audible over the yelling. She glanced over her shoulder and in between the gaps in the teeming masses. "He's ordering them to arrest her now. She's on her feet- oh, that's not good."

Steel scraping a scabbard has a particular ring to it, and the sound sliced through the crowd to find Tyrion's ears while he huddled behind a piece of wood and listened to his wife's narration. He looked around frantically for an exit, but maddeningly, the Sept only provided a front door, windows that weren't meant to open, and nothing else. _A shoddy place for a trial, but worse for a fight._

"Let me up," he said, groaning. His back ached and his legs, for whatever reason, ached worse. He wriggled out of Sansa's grip and pushed himself upright while Sansa gaped at the chaos in silence. Tyrion turned around to see no less than four Kingsguard pointing bare steel at the crowd, Ser Kevan, each other, and the gods. Cersei was on her feet with blood all over her face, jabbing a finger at Kevan and yelling incoherently at anyone who would listen.

"Don't let them start fighting here," Sansa said, looking up to the stern faces of the gods, then down to her husband. "Tyrion, please, do something."

"I suppose I'll snatch the swords from their hands and juggle them out the front door," he drawled.

Sansa bared her teeth and threw him a glare that burrowed into his skull. " _Talk_ to them, you jackass. What else are you good for?"

 _The evidence shows I_ _'m a fantastic scapegoat._ Tyrion bit his tongue and watched his dear sister spit and holler about cravens and kinslayers, while the armed men in the room looked at each other uneasily and then over to the little man gawking at them from the bench. Tyrion hadn't noticed the shift as it happened, but from the moment naked steel flashed in the sunlight, the people standing in every row had started to inch away until virtually the whole crowd was packed against the windows. While Tyrion and Sansa suddenly had a clear view of the murders-to-be, the parting of the sea of people also gave Cersei a direct line of sight to Tyrion's ugly face.

She pointed and shrieked.

 _Maybe I should have listened to Sansa_ _'s first idea._ Tyrion's pushed himself off the pew and on to his unsteady feet. Sansa was right behind him, and his throat tightened as they walked to the aisle and faced down Cersei. Her, plus the four armed and deadly men on the verge of spilling blood, anybody's blood. _If I am good at one thing, please let it be this._

"Gentlemen!" he shouted, in his most genial voice. He spread his arms and smiled his fakest, broadest smile. "I believe my sister was looking for me, and here I am, so there's no cause for swaths to be cut."

"Kevan had _no_ authority to let him out of his cell," Cersei said, in the most measured tone she could manage given the circumstance. Her face burned red and bright, and she pointed to the floor as she talked, as if hoping to appeal to her buried father's authority. "I _demand_ the dwarf be locked away so we can continue this _farce_ of a trial." She turned to Ser Kevan. "And _this_ man should be thrown in the cell with him, for the crime of striking a Queen!"

Ser Meryn actually moved to grab the Hand. _What a simpleton that one is._ Balon Swann checked him with a glance, and though Tyrion couldn't read him under all that armor, he was confident that Ser Balon would take the pacifist's side. Someone lurked at the edge of Tyrion's vision, and when he turned, Olenna Tyrell was approaching them with a purse clutched in her hands. They locked eyes for a moment and she backed down. _Wait for the swords to go away before you work your magic._

 _Okay, back to Cersei._ "To be fair, you did insult Tywin Lannister and blame Kevan for his death," Tyrion said. _An exaggeration, but who remembers the exact wording?_ "With everything that's happened, we are all balanced on a knife's edge, you know. I'm sure the Hand is quite sorry-"

"I'm placing you under arrest on the Queen's orders," Ser Meryn shouted through his faceplate. _Oh, great. Why do idiots always find their courage?_ The Kingsguard knight pushed past Ser Balon and grabbed Kevan's arm with his free hand, menacing him with the longsword in the other. Ser Balon spun and snatched up Ser Meryn's wrist, shaking his head, then yanked him backwards with the weight of his body. Ser Meryn's gauntleted hand let go of Kevan's, and for an instant Tyrion thought he might spin and attack his sworn brother, but instead Ser Meryn hesitated just long enough for an intercession. Ser Balon said something too muffled to understand and shoved Kevan towards the door, turning as he went with his sword aloft and threatening anyone who might be particularly loyal to the Queen and dumb enough to do anything she said.

They had forgotten about Tyrion for that brief second. _Perhaps it is time to slink away. Slither, even._ But Kevan was moving now, and as Ser Meryn alone seemed willing to follow Cersei's absurd command, the remaining two Kingsguard did nothing to intervene. _You are outvoted three-to-one, you little toad._ Cersei held her bloody face and watched them go. Ser Meryn almost looked like he was going to follow, but just as he tried to gather his courage and push past the other two white cloaks still in the room, they all stopped at once and looked back to the hall outside, then lowered the points of their steel to the floor.

Before Tyrion could say anything, Ser Meryn stepped aside. Behind him, just inside the open doors of the Sept, was little Tommen.

"Uncle Tyrion," came his small voice. Cersei stepped up to him and grasped his shoulder, but he stood firm and locked eyes with his uncle, then pointed at him. "There's Uncle Tyrion.I have to ask him."

Cersei whispered something in ear but he thrashed his arm in a childlike motion, slipped out of her grasp and stepped forward. "Uncle Tyrion," he repeated, "did you kill Joffrey?"

They were less than ten paces apart now. Three Kingsguard faced him with naked steel, daring him to kill a second king. _Perhaps I will turn into a very small lion._ Tyrion looked between the columns of steel legs to Tommen's pleading face. "I swear I didn't," he said, both palms held up to ward off Ser Meryn's itchy sword arm. "If there's anything in all my life that I've been completely honest about, it's this. I didn't kill Joffrey. I knew nothing about it and had nothing to do with it."

"You see!" the boy king shouted. He spun to look up at his mother, pointing back at Tyrion with one plump little hand and grabbing her skirts with the other. "I told you Uncle Tyrion is innocent! It wasn't him, it was just Sansa Stark all on her own! Let him go and arrest her!"

 _And we were so close._


	12. Arya III

ARYA

Branches smacked Arya in the face as she ran. Nymeria _had_ to be there, stalking under the treeline and just waiting for her to come join her pack. A mass of scattered paw prints flew under her feet, freshly lain and deep in the mud, but Arya didn't need them to figure out where she was going. She _knew._

The hunters would find them later, but she pledged to make sure Nymeria and the others were long gone before that happened. She wouldn't want some poor hunter getting caught out and eviscerated by a hundred wolves, not unless it were a Frey, and one killing would lead to more, and before they knew it they'd have a thousand men bringing fire and steel to the forests. Even Nymeria had her limits, swift as she was.

She reached a steep incline where the trees thinned and the trail grew muddier and muddier. A tiny clearing appeared in front of her, and there on the top of the hill, her wolf pack rested.

Nymeria sat on her haunches, perched on the highest crest, and studied Arya from a distance. The rest of the pack lounged about, paced, snarled and snapped at one another, and generally did everything a wolf is expected to do. A few males circles around her, but she warded them off with a growl and turned back to the girl at the bottom of the hill. Arya thought she was supposed to be afraid, but no fear came. _No, this is right. This is natural._

So she climbed the hill. Her feet slipped in the mud without roots to jump to and from. Torrential rains had come the night before to wash away the bloody battlefield outside the Twins, and it was then, whilst lying in bed and listening to the storms, she had been soggy and miserable and deep in the woods instead of comfortable and resting. The hearthfire had given way to ice-cold drops of rain, sharp as daggers on her scalp, and then she was warm and dry again with hair instead of fur. Her mother had snoozed next to her, and then she was back outside. In, out. Safe, exposed. Girl, wolf.

Climbing the hill, though, she was only the girl, and her boots failed to give her the same purchase as her paws. She slipped and fell flat on her face, reaching out too late and getting a nose full of mud. The wolves made no move to help, but once she was up on her feet again, they parted to give her room to walk. One drifted too close and Nymeria snarled at him. She wanted him to move, Arya knew, but the words came as a thought and not a sound. The offending wolf turned his head up at Nymeria, then pinned his ears in shame and slunk away.

Arya spat mud as she climbed the rest of the way. The pack closed in behind her to block her escape, but she didn't come this far just to run away again. She was already filthy and soaked head to toe, clambering slowly and gripping at the soft ground with her useless little pale hands. Up and up she went, and before she knew it, the muddy incline gave way to the dirt and grass at the crest of the hill. Nymeria stuck her snout in Arya's face, but she did not balk. She panted with the exertion and reached out with one shaky hand.

Nymeria licked her palm.

"Good to see you too," Arya said, grinning. "I'm sorry I threw rocks at you and made you run off. You were so much smaller then, and they were going to kill you like they killed Lady. We don't have to worry about that anymore. All the worst Lannisters are dead except Cersei, but she's going to lose the war. You can come back with me to the Twins."

The direwolf licked her face and rubbed her fur against her neck. Arya look deep into Nymeria's eyes, scratched her ear and gave her a long hug around the neck. She was so _huge_ now, and so warm. Arya remembered a time not long ago when the roles were reversed, and the pup was curled against the girl's neck for comfort.

"We can go now," Arya said, her face still buried in fur. "My mother is waiting. Grey Wind is out west, but he'll be back soon too. Everyone will be together again. I promise."

Arya stood, bracing herself on her wolf's colossal form to keep from slipping in the mud, but when she started to leave, Nymeria turned around and slowly walked in the other direction. Arya turned back to her and let the question form on her lips. _Why isn_ _'t she coming with me?_ Nymeria kept walking with her nose to the ground, and as if responding to some silent command, the pack all picked itself up at once and followed.

"Come back!" she shouted, but the wolf didn't respond. Arya pulled her feet loose from the mud and broken into a run across the level, harder ground. Younger and weaker wolves parted for her while the ugliest and meanest bared their teeth and growled low in the throat. She ignored them and kept running and shouting.

Nymeria turned to face her again, and their eyes met.

In the space of seconds, Arya understood. She had been a pup once, rescued from the snow and raised in a castle, but she was too many years and too many trials distant from her old life as a pet to royals. Nymeria was a creature of the forests, a daughter of nature and a fury too terrible to keep in a cage, even one so gilded as the greatest kennels of Winterfell. Never again could she live that life between stone walls and underneath a roof that hid her from the night sky, sleeping in the foot of Arya's soft bed or locked behind stubborn iron bars that were beyond even the direwolf's mighty strength to bend. In a human pack the dogs and wolves must submit or die, but Nymeria was born to be an alpha, and there was nothing left for her but the wilds.

"Then let me come with you!" Arya shouted, tears forming in her eyes. _I came all this way._ But she thought of her poor mother back in the Twins. She'd lost her daughters and gotten one back, only for the wild child to run off into the forest and frolic with monsters instead of bathe and wear pretty dresses like she was supposed to. What would she eat? How would she keep warm through the winter, and dry through the storms? Where a real wolf had teeth and claws, Arya had a long, thin dagger at her waist, plus the other thing, but that wouldn't last long if she had to use it. Where a true wolf had calloused paws and thick fur that grew even thicker for the cold, she had squire's boots wrapped around her feet, fine cotton breeches and a doublet thick enough to keep out the autumn chill. Yet she had been outdoors for less than an hour and all of those clothes but maybe the boots were already ruined, her princess's stomach could never handle the stresses of raw flesh and organ meat, and a fat lot of good the dagger would do against anything hostile she might find in the woods. How could she survive? How could she be one of them, truly, when she was just a helpless human and a charity case? How long could Nymeria tolerate a weak link in her pack, when wolves far stronger than her had already been culled?

 _We could run together._ As she thought the words, she knew them not to be true. She cared little about the clothes, of course. Arya always hated playing dressup, and she could never bring herself to worry about silly things like how a girl is supposed to look. Not like Sansa, who made being a proper lady her business, or her mother who taught Sansa and tried so hard to teach Arya the same. What would they say if they could see her now? What would her father think if he saw her through the bloody eyes of the weirwood trees, abandoning her family only days after finding them, eating the scraps left behind by wolves and digging holes to curl up and sleep?

"Will you stay close?" she said with wet cheeks. "Will you be here so I can find you if I need you?"

Nymeria couldn't answer, but Arya stepped outside herself and into the forest for just a moment, and in the seconds before she returned to her own flesh, she understood. Her wolf had plenty more to do in the world before she could retire to a life of belly rubs and doggy treats. She had come around to say hello and kill Tywin Lannister, but she would be gone again soon, leaving her the same way Arya had nearly left her mother. Cersei still lived and until then Nymeria could not rest. Lions were everywhere, and if the world of men could not take care of the problem, then it would have to be a time for wolves.

The pack disappeared into the woods and left her all alone.

 _I have to get back._ Arya lingered for a few moments on her hill, then turned towards the setting sun and walked back down the way she came. Or did she? Scents and tracks could lead her after game, but she wouldn't have Nymeria's nose anymore and everything looked the same. _The river. I have to find the river._ The Green Fork was tough to miss, so all she had to do was hike north until she found water, then follow it one direction or another until she reached the Crossing.

She used the sun to align herself and soon she was walking north as planned. She slipped through trees, over brush, past squirrels and rabbits and deer who all watched her quizzically, maybe trying to figure out what she was or what she meant to do with them. _I_ _'d sup on your blood if I could, but the wolf is gone and only the girl is here, and she doesn't even have her Needle._ Arya hiked like this for hours, but the stress didn't bother her and she kept up the pace until the sun dipped below the treeline and plunged her world into darkness.

The Green Fork did not appear, nor did distant rushing water reach her ears. She only heard the sounds of insects calling to one another in the night, leaves shifting in the wind, trees snoring and predators prowling all around her. They dared not touch her, no, not the wolf girl, because though Nymeria was gone, the scent of the forest queen lingered long enough that Arya could find safety in stone, just like a weak, frail little girl was supposed to.

And then she heard men's voices calling to one another, shouting, laughing, and the forest fled at their coming. Torchlight pierced the black and Arya spotted three, four, maybe more, all stomping about clumsily in their armor and swords. She kept still as a statue, quiet as a corpse, hiding her body behind a tree and peering around to watch the torchlight drift closer and closer until faces appeared beneath.

 _I am a shadow._ They couldn't see her for the torch blindness, but she held still all the same. It was at least six men and all were just as heavily armored as they sounded. She looked for familiar faces, but the flickering torchlight only gave her glimpses of beards, scars, missing ears, and one particularly fat neck. All had left their heads exposed to the elements and only the two in front actually held their swords drawn in front of them. _No, not swords. Knives, and big ones._ The rest had longswords sheathed their hips, except one with a wicked hooked knife tucked away in his belt, and all of them had a mix of short and long daggers, axes, and one big spear slung over the owner's shoulder. The leaders swung those heavy hacking knives around to cut away branches and brush and make a horrid racket every time they took another step, one that sent the forest reeling and the real predators calling.

"Bloody sorcerers," one of them growled. "Northerners'r in league with Stannis Baratheon, you can bet on that, friend."

"I didn't see no red woman," a younger voice said.

The first one, a tall man with the voice of an older veteran, slapped him in the ear. "Didn't ya see the flames? Weren't no normal fire, it was magic pure and simple, and it's the fire god who does that. The red woman probably made that shite and gave it to Stark."

 _I recognize that voice._ She couldn't place it right off, but she'd definitely heard the veteran before, and the younger one rung a bell somewhere deep down in her memory. Both speakers were the knife-wielders up front, while the next two carried torches and the last two fidgeted with their hands and followed silently behind. When the leader had whacked his fellow in the ear, the rest had paused for a second, giving Arya a better chance to make a count. It was six men after all, every one exhausted and bedraggled, and few willing to argue theology in the middle of the night. They walked past and Arya stepped out from behind the safety of the tree to follow.

"You think they'll use the same magic at King's Landing?" the younger man said. She was behind them now and couldn't see his face at all, but she heard him cower when the older man shot him an angry glare.

"What's it matter to us? I'm having none of that shite. You can go die in green fire, or red fire, or magic from across a battlefield you can't even see that makes your heart burst in your chest and your brains leak out your ears. You let me know how it goes when you think you've got the bastards, and then they turn themselves into wolves the size of horses. If you can find me, and if you aren't dead in a week, you can tell me."

"I didn't say that," the younger man protested in a small voice. "But my folks are in Flea Bottom, you know? What if I never see them again?"

The older man spat. "Bloody deserters don't get to have families, you dimwit. Now shut your mouth, or the wolves'll hear you yapping."

 _They smelled your stink a week ago._ Arya stayed with them for some time until she realized they were ambling east and south aimlessly, not following any trail or any landmark, just walking through the night like they had nowhere to go and no idea where they were. As they walked, one of the men in the back lagged behind. He was wider than the rest but shorter at the same time, a fat little bald man that made Arya wonder exactly how he found work in wartime. Whatever the case, a dozen pouches and satchels bounced and jiggled at his hip in time with his rolls, and any noise she might have made stepping over roots and stones was soon covered up by his heavy breathing.

"Where are we going, then?" a new voice said, a sneering lilt that came roaring back from Arya's nightmares. _I know that one, too._

"I already said we'd get a boat at Seagard," the leader said. _You aren_ _'t even going the right way._ "We get a boat to the Iron Islands and hide out. Or you can do whatever you want, but that's where I'm headed."

Voices sprang up from the whole procession. "Ain't the Greyjoys rebelling against the king too?"

"What if the fishfucking cunts make us for deserters at the bloody port?"

"Won't they be looking for us at the sea? On account of what happened at Harrenhal."

"We ought to go back to Tywin bloody Lannister, he'll help us out. We did good work for his shit-gilded lordship. When he said to go kill some twat we never did not say no, not fucking once."

"He's dead, you idiot, and if he lived he'd hang us just to keep us quiet."

That last voice was the leader, and he stopped and whirled on his little band. Arya froze mid step and shrank down into a low crouch, with the forest canopy holding back the starlight and the fat man's body shielding her from the torch.

"No room for us in Westeros. We can't go to the Iron Islands, fine, there's plenty of ships going to every place in the world and we need to be on one of them. With the war over there's probably a hundred merchants eager to sell at Seagard and none too particular about the help."

"I don't know nothing about sailing," someone with a laughably sad-sounding voice muttered.

"You don't know nothing about fighting neither," came the reply, "but you were paid for it all the same."

"Did you hear the Hound is dead?" someone said without any prompt.

Arya's heart leapt in her throat, but the other men just grumbled at him and the leader stared off silently into the forest. "I swear I saw him hauling corpses at the Twins," the fat man said. "He was alive then, and still healthy."

"What were you doing at the twins?"

He shrugged. "Needed work. Nobody knew my face, and they were paying. Anyway, if he died it was later, but I don't know how."

"Got killed saving that Stark girl," the man with the spear said. "The one who everyone's talking about. Took a hundred arrows from all the crossbows while Stark put down old Walder Frey. The other Stark, I mean, the king or what have you."

"It was crossbow bolts, not arrows, and he wasn't at the wedding, he came after. Him and his squire killed a couple Freys right after it all started, and then the wolf got out and it was all bad after that. Wish I hadn't seen it."

The leader had been quiet through that exchange, but suddenly he rounded on the witness and the rest shifted out of his way. The tall man snatched up the fat one's collar. "You saw him _during_ the battle? The Hound? What did you do about it?"

He gulped. "Nothing. You ever seen that bastard fight? No, thank you. I'd rather fight Stark's wolf."

The leader spat on the ground and shoved the man backwards until he was only a few feet from Arya's still form. "Ser would have paid us a fortune for that burnt-up head of his. Least you could have done was stabbed him in the back. Fucking hell, the lot of you cowards are worth less than nothing when the real fight starts."

Silence for a beat. "So, is he dead, or not?"

Everyone ignored the question. The leader turned away, but instead of resuming the march, he jabbed a finger at a torchbearer and complained about some old grievance that Arya didn't care about. She crouched, calm as a stone, touched the leather grip of the knife at her belt and stilled her breath. As the tall man yelled, the fat man shifted aside and the nearest torch bathed his leader in light from his balding head, to his bristling beard, to the thin sword hooked at his hip, so light she'd thought it to be a long dagger the last time she had a glimpse.

Arya gasped.

They all froze. "What was that, an animal?" Polliver said. Somebody started to talk but he hissed at them to shut up.

 _With sharp teeth._ He peered uselessly into the darkness, then grunted and pushed the torchbearer away from him to get the fire out of his eyes. Arya's arms and neck were covered in mud, her clothes were stained brown, her face was soot and her hair was just as dark as ever. She even closed her eyes, then felt around in the mud for a good throwing stone in case she needed it.

"Gods, boss, what if it's a wolf?" someone said.

"I'll skewer it then," the man with the permanent sneer in his voice said. _Dunsen._

"If it's one wolf it's a hundred," the fat man said. "Isn't it what they said happened while we was at Riverrun? A hundred wolves came-"

"I said shut the fuck up," Polliver growled.

The six of them waited and listened to the sounds of insects buzzing and the two torches crackling. Someone yelped when a bit of ash fell out and stung their hand.

"You're just hearing things, boss," Dunsen said. "If it were a wolfpack we'd be fighting for our lives already."

In her mind, Arya whispered the names of all the Mountain's men one-by-one, but only two of the ones on her list were here. _Polliver. Dunsen._ The one with the shitmouth had to be Shitmouth, and she didn't recognize the fat bald one's voice at all. The other two she'd heard but couldn't place, one a sad little man and the other just a gruff and thick-bearded fighting type who hadn't said much. Gregor Clegane couldn't have been with them, she knew, because she'd have heard him coming from a mile off, and that was without the benefit of Nymeria's ears.

"I think Dunsen's right," the fat one said. "I don't see anything at all."

"We're all a bunch of dumb torchblind fucks," Shitmouth said. "Walking through the bloody woods at the hour of the witch's tit with black and shit else all around us."

"Forget it," Polliver finally said, grabbing Dunsen's torch and yanking it out of his hands. He held it out to his side and whacked it against a tree, knocking ash loose. "We're fucking going until we break the treeline and get the starlight over our heads." He muttered something about ghosts and stomped off, loud as he pleased, tugged at difficult branches with his free hand and pushed through the rest.

"Ghosts," Arya whispered, quieter than a mouse's squeak. "You have no idea."

They moved much faster now, even the fat one. He started complaining and someone cursed at him in response, which is how she found out his name was Eggon. She decided what to do with each one as she walked, starting with the newcomers and ending with Needle and the man who killed Lommy. Eggon would live, she decided, because he was at the Twins but didn't kill anybody she knew. He even helped bury the bodies and clean up the debris so that Robb could take the field and win his big victory. The Mountain hadn't been at that battle, nor had the fat one been with them at Harrenhal, which meant as far as she knew Eggon had never raised a hand against her family. Besides, somebody had to live, or else who would believe that one wolf killed so many armed men in the night?

The woods thinned and Polliver broke into a jog. The others mostly kept up the pace, but Eggon lagged behind more and more, his breathing growing strained and erratic. Once or twice he tried to shout something in protest but it came out as a mixture of whines, gasps, and wheezes, and soon he was shrouded completely in darkness and stumbling as he went. _I can slip by him._ Just as she was about to run past, Eggon's foot snagged in a tree root and he fell screaming a bloody racket, landed nose-first in the loose mud and thrashed around like a baby turned over.

Arya froze. If someone came back to check on him, he'd be easy prey, but she would have no such luck. The men ahead shouted in alarm, but instead of coming back to help their friend, the lot of them broke into a sprint, crashing through trees and brush and sending mud flying in their wake. While the abandoned soldier sputtered and grasped at his face, Arya stepped over him, reaching down and plucking a fine dagger from its sheath at his waist, a broad-bladed hole puncher better than the slim weapon she'd brought. _Two knives are better than one._ She slipped away with clean blades and jogged lightly on the balls of her feet up a steep incline, using roots and rocks for balance, and headed towards the growing torchlight in the distance.

Suddenly, a silhouette was thrashing in front of her, and a man's voice cut between groans and filthy curses while he tried to drag himself back up to his feet. "Wait up you craven fucks!" he shouted, high and tight like a woman's wail, clawing at a tree but wobbling at the knee and crying out in pain. _The patient predator is rewarded with isolated prey._ Arya's new dagger flashed with grey steel and black blood, slipped in and out with only a _squelch_ and less resistance than a spade on the beach. His cries cut abruptly to nothing, then came back as gurgling and spitting, and then they were nothing again.

She checked Shitmouth's body for a good weapon and took a purse of silver instead. She almost clipped it to her waist like a fool, but realized it was more useful as a message. She squeezed her fist around the purse, reached back, then hurled it with all her force forward up the rest of the hill and into the open where the others waited for their missing comrade. It landed in the newly-made trail with a thud and a clank, and after a few silent seconds, someone screamed for the Father's mercy and babbled something nonsensical about wolf spirits and fire magic. Arya took up her bloody dagger and slipped off the path into a thicket, twisting past thorn bushes and under a thick oak branch to a hiding spot beyond a tree trunk wide enough to conceal her whole body.

"It ain't a fucking wolf!" Polliver shouted. "Draw your swords or I'll cut your bloody throats myself!"

"Did the wolf get Eggon?" the shaky-voiced man said.

A _clunk_ resounded through the trees and a body slumped against the ground with a grunt. "I said it wasn't a fucking wolf." Polliver snorted, then spat loud enough to reach Arya's ears. "It's just one man, you can bet on that. If it were more they'd have already attacked, instead of waiting to catch us one by one."

The others said something too low for her to hear with all the trees and distance between them. "We're going in there to fight the bastard, that's what," Polliver said back to them, loud as he pleased. Mail shifted nearby and she saw starlight glitter off the point of a spear, angled down the incline as Dunsen crept back the way he'd come.

The treeline had to be right at the top of the hill. A smarter bunch would have fled into the open, but these weren't a smart bunch, and if Polliver had slugged the whiner hard enough. then she only had three left to kill. Her heart had stayed still and quiet up to that point, but as the spear shaft passed in front of her vision and the man came behind it, a sudden roar filled her ears and her chest heaved as if to burst. She set the dagger down and clutched the nearest tree root, pressed her tangled hair against the trunk and breathed deep while she waited for the terror to pass.

Her guts twisted in fear and panic, but only moments later it all drifted away and she was normal again, still and quiet and breathing softer than the trees themselves. She took up the dagger again and wiped the blood on her pants, touched her knife and waited for the three of them to surround Shitmouth's body and prod him repeatedly until they were satisfied that he hadn't simply thrown his money at them and lain down for a nap.

"It's the neck," Dunsen said, jabbing him in the gushing wound for good measure. "He got up close enough to knife him and slip away."

"Who kills a man like that," Polliver grumbled, but a man who would do exactly that stood right next to him. The other one, Nameless, held his sword out in front like he knew what to do with it, then turned slowly into a circle and looked each way for any sign of motion. The clearing was near, so the trees had thinned enough that they'd left their torches back up the hill and were better off for it.

"Eggon'll be farther back," Dunsen said, pointing with his spear. "We could go get his silver. Plus, he had all the food."

"Bugger the food," Polliver said, as if Shitmouth's ghost had found a new body. "We'll make the run to Seagard and buy a steaming pot of stew and potatoes, lamprey fucking pie, whatever you want, but we can't say around here like bloody idiots and gape at a corpse. We get out in the open and it's a short jaunt to the road."

"You said it yourself," Dunsen said slowly, narrowing his eyes, "we can't take the road. We have to show up at night and be gone before the questions get asked."

Polliver spat again and licked his lips. "Well the plan changed, didn't it? Let's go get Tobbot if he ain't dead already, and get the fuck out of here. Leave the coin for the cunt on our trail." He took a deep breath. "You hear me?" he shouted into the woods, his voice muffled by the trees. "Take the money, see if I care, but we're four armed men and don't think we don't know you're just one, so back the fuck off!"

He was right, but he was wrong. Arya was a girl, a wolf, and a ghost in one, but she was a goddess too, and she held the power of the gods tucked safely in her belt. Before she had run off from the Twins she went looking for a real weapon, but short blades were for children and the only sword she liked was Needle. She'd gone poking around in the armory before her mother had caught her, but she was too quick and too sneaky to have her real mission discovered, and her mother had sent her off with a scolding and didn't see the other knife she'd hidden away under her shirt. _They made one the right size just for me._ She reached for it then, feeling the leather grip in her hands, drew it loose and hefted the awkward weight in her small hands.

She pointed the gun at Nameless. He'd been around Harrenhal when the Mountain was torturing people to death, she was sure of that much at least, so he deserved it just as much as the rest of them. _If I knew his name, I_ _'d have been saying it every night for the last six months._ He turned and showed her his mail-clad chest, looked right at the bright shiny metal in her hand and stepped back, gawking in silence and pointing his useless sword at her from ten feet away.

Arya shot a hole straight in his heart.

The power of the Old Gods roared in her hand and threw her arm back with such force she almost let the precious weapon slip from her grasp. The blast rang in her ears and she blinked away the bright flash that stung her eyes. She slipped back behind the tree and tucked the weapon away so it wouldn't catch the starlight as Dunsen and Polliver both screamed and swung at the air. Dunsen whacked a tree with his spear and tripped over Polliver's boot, tumbling ass-over-forehead down the muddy hill with a loud _crack_ and a cry of pain.

"It's Stannis!" Polliver shouted in a mad rage. "It's the Red fucking Woman! Come out and fight me, you foreign bitch! You kinslaying cunt!"

Arya had no earthly idea what he was talking about, but she waited patiently for him to thrash about and scream more curses and challenges. She admired the gun in her hand, silver metal etched with the name of the smith who built it. "And Wesson" seemed an odd name for a man, so maybe it was what the Old Gods called themselves? Whoever made the guns, this one could cast its spell ten times in a row. Two men and nine spells, those were good odds, and she could always slit their throats in the darkness if it came to it. _Or tear into their flesh with my fangs._

Polliver had finally shut his mouth, but heavy panting and a high-pitched whine snuck through his clenched teeth. Arya peeked out from her corner and saw him still standing there with the sword out, eyes wide, and his free hand clenched in a fist. Without taking his eyes off the trees, he tipped his head down the hill.

"Dunsen? You alive?"

"Fuck you," came the pained reply. "Don't leave me down here."

Polliver took one long drag of fresh air and spat. "Didn't say I was." His eyes and chest calmed, then he lifted his feet free of the sucking mud. "Rolfe's dead," he shouted down to Dunsen. "Don't know about Tobbot. Hurry up, asshole. I'm not waiting all day for the bitch to get another spell ready."

Arya could shoot him at any time, but she reached down with her left hand and touched her dagger instead. _It_ _'s more personal that way._ Needle hung from his hip, quivering as he stepped cautiously forward. Polliver had been there when Lommy died, he'd taken Needle and he'd done the gods know what to folks in the Riverlands because Tywin Lannister and Gregor Clegane told him to. When he'd come Weasel had run off and she was probably dead too, so that was another death on his head, and somehow it didn't see right for him to die all at once with magic and not feel a thing or know who it was that killed him.

"I need help," Dunsen's strained voice came back. "It's my leg. Fuck me, it hurts."

"Can you walk?"

"I don't know."

Polliver looked up the hill to what he thought was freedom, and then back down to his wounded-comrade in arms, then down to the corpse at his feet and up at the stars that had done fuck-all to protect them, as Shitmouth would probably have put it. He cursed softly to himself, then stepped slowly backwards down the hill towards Dunsen's ragged moans and breathing, still holding that sword out towards his unseen enemy. Arya stayed perfectly still until he finally spun on his heel and stepped down and out of sight.

In the dim light she found a trail just barely wide enough for her to slide through, over roots and stones and under branches until she was going down the incline, once again hopping from root to rock and back again until she was right next to the shifting mail and grunting men. Three boots slipped on mud and reached feebly for trees to help pull themselves along, while a fourth bounced to the side. They hit the steepest part of the hill, right past Shitmouth's body, and started the climb. Dunsen groaned under the effort and yelped in pain whenever his injured leg touched the earth. Hopping one-footed with an arm slung over his friend's shoulder, he was proving enough of a burden to slow them down, so Polliver sheathed his sword for want of an extra hand and that was what killed him. Arya slid her dagger free again and crept up to their bent forms, all armored around the torso and boots but light enough around the knees and thighs to move freely. When one of Polliver's feet slipped free she leapt forward, snatched his ankle and thrust her dagger straight into his right inner thigh all in one smooth motion.

He screamed and kicked but she was already gone, a ghost with a bloody dagger and godly magic leaping back into the trees. The two of them twisted into a heap and slid right back down on top of Shitmouth's body, all limbs and steel and bloody tears. Polliver was pinned under Dunsen's thrashing form when Arya jumped out of the shadows and showed herself to him, a tiny girl covered in crimson mud with hate written across her eyes and bared, snarling teeth.

"You took my sword," she spat, and gave him her dagger.

Dunsen twisted off and groped around for her but she had already jumped back, leaving the dagger quivering in Polliver's eye. Dunsen pushed himself up to his knees and gasped in agony, swinging a fist blindly at the air and so terrified that he forgot the dagger still in his belt. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Arya stayed out in the open and they stared at each other for a few long moments. His frantic breathing slowed to pained gasps and he leaned back on one elbow, the broken leg jutting out to the side, and watched her eyes.

Neither moved. Needle was between them, but she held deadly magic in one hand and Dunsen couldn't even stand. They just stared and stared and waited for the other to blink, and it was he that spoke first.

"I know who you are," he growled, clenching his teeth. "You were a serving boy at Harrenhal. You were friends with that smith what killed half a dozen men when he broke out." Dunsen spat. "So you snuck out with him, then? I forgot all about you, first moment you were gone."

"I never forgot you," she said, her tone flat as death. "I never forgot Lommy."

"What the fuck is a Lommy?"

"You stabbed a boy in the throat because he couldn't walk. That's when your friend took my sword. You never asked his name, or mine for that matter." He stared at her in silence, without a clue what to say, so she went on. "Don't you want to know now? Don't you want to know who killed you?"

"Some cunt."

She lifted the gun and shot him in the head.

Dunsen's brain matter coated the hill behind him and he slumped over the corpse pile and came to a rest. _I wanted to do it with Needle._ There were still two alive, but she'd decided one could live and the other probably ran off already, so she would have to wait before Needle could taste blood. Arya tucked the weapon of the Old Gods away and plucked their purses from their belts, tying the lot of them to hers as trophies before hauling Dunsen aside and reaching for Needle's hilt.

"Oh, gods," came a voice behind her.

She whirled, her sword finally in her hand, and saw the fat man behind her. His whole body trembled and he raised both palms in surrender. "Oh, gods," he repeated.

"Why didn't you run the other direction?" Arya said.

"I thought- maybe- the boss was alive, or-" he stammered, then swallowed deep. "You killed all of them?"

"I think the one called Tobbot got away. Polliver hit him, and I don't know what happened after that."

He blinked at the news and nodded slowly. "Are you going to kill me too?" he said, squeaking out the words between heavy breaths. "I never did care much for the Seven, you know. I like roller just as much as the rest of them. It's nothing to me. Do I need to say some words or something, cause I will, you can count on that."

She wanted to ask him what "roller" was but hardly anything these men said made any sense, so she let it go. "Give thanks at the next weirwood tree you see," she said, then turned and hopped up the hill and out into the clearing beyond.


	13. Catelyn III

CATELYN

Vyman had insisted it was a common childhood affliction, one that could strike at any age and vanish on its own. "Harmless," he said, "as long as the child does not have a spell whilst riding a horse or something similarly dangerous. You should keep the child- er, the princess, that is, confined until the symptoms stop."

But he hadn't seen Arya's eyes go white. _And she didn_ _'t tremor._ Riverrun's transplanted maester was still busy with the wounded, Catelyn knew, and he couldn't spend time on what he thought was a non-issue, particularly if it meant neglecting his duties to the king's men. _And his duty to his sister?_ The seizures were not fatal, Vyman assured her, and her condition was only a natural result of the terrible stresses the child underwent while on her long journey from King's Landing to the Crossing. _The gods let it be true._

Arya had needed some time alone, so Catelyn watched her run off into the treeline outside the Twins from her lavish quarters near the top of the castle. _I have been smothering her._ Since her little miracle had arrived they'd been inseparable, but after the battle and Arya's sudden seizure, her daughter had wanted nothing more than to peel away and play in the woods. Catelyn had to finally relent and give her space. She regretting it instantly, of course, and once her constant companion was gone from her side, Catelyn found herself alone in her quarters and waiting for news of victory at Riverrun. _I am useless_. Fresh grief touched her again and she wept softly, a routine she had mastered nearly every day since her precious boys died and her husband had been taken from her.

She would need to stay strong for the trials that lay ahead. Catelyn hadn't confided Ser Raynald's final words to anyone else save Ser Wendel and the gods, as he was the only Northman in Robb's inner circle who remained in the Twins. The knight's infirmities had left him unfit for the pursuit, so he'd volunteered to serve as Robb's surrogate until the war was over. _I trust noone else, not even my own brother._ She and Ser Wendel had agreed not to risk a bird in flight, and so the two of them would carry the message of the Spicer's betrayal close at heart until the siege of Riverrun was finally lifted. When the road lay open, they would surround themselves with swords and depart from the Twins with justice coursing through their veins. _Unless Arya vanishes again in the meantime._

In the meantime, there was still work to do in the Riverlands. Catelyn collected herself and touched up the edges of her eyes with flour and a dab of paint, dressed in a proper lady's finery, and tied her long auburn hair into a tight braid. The work to clean the castle had already been finished, but Catelyn still did not trust a Frey palace servant far enough to attend to her womanly needs. _All I need is one Frey whelp_ _'s aggrieved lover to pick up a set of shears and take her revenge._ Once she was presentable, she took her crutch with her and limped down to the old Frey great hall where she found Edmure holding court.

Her brother had apparently been less paranoid about trusting the help. His hair was oiled and slicked back, his new mustache and beard impeccably trimmed, and he'd even dyed his facial hair a slightly lighter shade of autumn to better match the hair on his head. _He sees the manly northerners and feels inadequate, I bet._ His pretty wife sat next to him and looked a world of youth and beauty, from her loose-flowing hair to her stunning belted gown in the fashion of the highest society. _She is dressed for a wedding._ The vast ballroom had been cleaned and bleached, and the couple even sat on the high chair where Walder Frey's skull had been obliterated. A fresh tapestry depicting an ancient River King's last battle hung over the spot where the late lord's brains had splattered, all signs of gore erased by soap and muscle. Instead of crossbowmen the balconies were filled with onlookers, river lords took up seats on scattered benches or around new tables hauled in from other parts of the castle, and Wendel Manderly sprawled across a huge bench near the side passage where Roose Bolton had muttered his last, incoherent words.

 _We should tear this place down stone by stone._ With the Greatjon and the others joining Robb on the front lines, the lordly types in attendance were all Tully bannermen, plus a handful of minor Frey lords who professed ignorance and innocence of their liege's betrayal. They'd all come to pay homage to the new Lord of the Trident, Edmure's self-styled title coined from the ancient kingly version that predated both the Conquest and the invasion of the Iron Islanders. Though Robb had wanted the expansive space used for yet another sickroom, Edmure had decided to turn it into his temporary great hall, so as to squeeze in an audience of gawking locals in addition to his highborn supplicants. The smallfolk were reduced to standing room only, and, she assumed, were teeming with a plethora of Lannister spies. _Spies here, spies everywhere. I will focus on the ones I can identify by name._

While she stood at the door looking around at the crowd, Edmure spotted her and looked up, beaming. "Catelyn! Please, come sit with me. Give her a hand someone, will you?"

He stood and a dozen river lords stood with him. Tristan Ryger stepped over to her first, extending a hand, and she leaned into him as they walked towards the platform. Edmure pulled out a chair as she made the steps, one right on the end of the table with Lady Roslin right between. She said her thanks to both men and sat down, lay her crutch down at her feet, and looked out over the crowd.

"I hear my sister slew Lothar Frey during the battle!" Edmure exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. Shouts of "Here, here!" rang about the chamber and men cheered her name. _They are all looking at me._ She smiled broadly, but the attention made her stomach flutter. _I had little to do with the feat, and everyone here knows that._

"They say she killed a dozen men!" someone shouted. He had a youthful and energetic voice, but she couldn't find the face who said it.

"All hail the Queen Mother!" an older man wearing the Bracken sigil said. _What does that even mean?_ "Saved the King's life, she did! I saw it myself!"

The crowd roared. Besides Catelyn, the only person in the room still seated was Wendel Manderly, and his jowls shook vigorously as he clapped and tried his best to cheer through the bandages still stuffed inside his mouth. Edmure clapped her on the back and a dull pain lanced through one of her wounds, but she smiled through it and waved politely until the sensation faded.

"Thank you," she said, as the rancor died down around her. "But the war isn't over yet."

"Gods willing it will be!" someone yelled, provoking a fresh bout of hoots and hollers.

"Quiet, quiet," Edmure said, taking his seat. The crowd followed him and silence fell. "Trials, that was what we were talking about. Trials for the surviving Freys and their bannermen." He went over a short list. Ser Leslyn Haigh would be tried first and hanged, and with his sons dead the house would either go to a cousin or revert to Tully. Erenford and Charleton had no hand in the betrayal and claimed vehemently to know nothing about it, so Edmure was prepared to issue pardons immediately if no contrary evidence came forth.

Theirs was a rare innocence. "Guest right is a sacred law," her brother reminded the room. Heads nodded sagely and many made the sign of the seven-pointed star. "No man who breaks it can escape justice, even if they only did so in loyalty to a liege lord. Such contracts are beneath their obligations to the gods." _I wonder what foreign gods Sybell Spicer holds to?_

"Hang 'em all!" someone shouted, and more voices joined him.

Roslin shifted in her seat, looking down at the desk and flushing red in the neck. Edmure reached over and squeezed her hand, then held up the other one for silence before the crowd could start squawking again. "Justice will come," he said, "and until then, we have fields to plant and armies to raise. Our king desperately needs men to retake Winterfell and march on King's Landing, once the Lannister host is destroyed."

Murmurs ran through the crowd and Wendel Manderly shifted his bulk on his bench, beckoning for a young squire to come over and take a note from him. Ser Wendel croaked something in the boy's ear and pointed up to Edmure and Catelyn, then patted him on the back.

"Ser Wendel says that White Harbor stands with the king," the boy shouted in a squeaky voice. "He says that, even now, Lord Wyman raises a fresh army and sends across the sea for sellswords to throw the Ironborn against the cliffs. He says they will turn their ships into kindling!"

 _While his other son languishes in Harrenhal._ "And Ser Wylis will lead them," Catelyn said. "Tell your father I promise he will see his son again." Ser Wendel nodded and took a long, labored breath.

The court went on like that for hours, with promises made, knights honored, titles given, villains cursed. Despite her young age, and despite the spittle hurled upon her family name, Lady Roslin remained poised and respectful throughout. _She is grateful to be alive._ In addition to Riverlander business and discussions about how to deal with the post-Balon Greyjoy Ironborn, the talk also turned to the subject of another pretender king's untimely demise. Someone relayed an absurd story from King's Landing about Robb Stark running naked through the streets on all fours to devour Joffrey in front of his Tyrell bride, while another tale said the boy was stabbed to death by Lady Margaery in the Great Sept seconds after the cloaks were exchanged.

But no word of Sansa. Catelyn finally relented and asked near the end, but nobody had heard anything, saying the Imp had been sighted at the royal wedding and immediately forgotten once the killing began. _She is the lady of Casterly Rock, now, and is probably sailing there with her grotesque husband to take his late father_ _'s seat._ Catelyn couldn't bring herself to hate Lord Tyrion on a personal level. The little monster had shown Bran some compassion, and while she had once been mad at him for worming his way out of his trial at the Eyrie, she knew in her heart that the gods had judged him true. He hadn't pushed her son out of that window, nor had he taken part in Jon Arryn's murder or any of the other myriad crimes that lay at Cersei Lannister's feet. _Did he even know about Walder Frey?_

The thought of her daughter being given to that man made her stomach turn, but at least he was likely not abusive or cruel. He would spend his time whoring and leave her alone for the most part, particularly once she was expecting. _Gods, I hope Robb and Jeyne give me my first grandchild._

"And there is still restitution for my losses," a too-young lordling in too-large armor said, puffing out his chest. "I have been assured-"

"Lord Karyl will receive assistance from the crown," Edmure said, waving a hand dismissively.

 _From the crown?_ Catelyn had let her attention drift off as the time passed, but this young man seemed to represent Karyl Vance in some respect. He was her father's bannerman - her brother's bannerman, now - and his own father had died early in the war and passed on the ruins of Wayfarer's Rest to his son. A castle is only as strong as the men defending it, she knew, and those men had been off fighting at Oxcross and the Battle of the Fords when Tywin's dogs climbed the walls and tore down the stones.

The young man turned to leave, apparently satisfied. "The King grieves for your losses," Catelyn said. He stopped and looked back up at her, then nodded briefly. "But we will discuss reconstruction of the Riverlands after the war is concluded."

Murmurs passed through the crowd. Edmure shot her an uncertain look, then turned to the Vance man. "What my sister means is-"

"-that we will address your concerns in due time," she said. _What has gotten into me?_ "The King hopes to make peace with those of his enemies who were innocent of the many crimes against our family and yours, whether it be the Tyrells or the Baratheons. Along with that peace will come grain and salted meat to help your smallfolk survive the coming winter. In the meantime, what gold my son has raised will be put towards the war effort. I hope you can understand."

The Vance man narrowed his eyes at her and curled his lips into half a snarl, then blinked rapidly and withdrew. "My lady, uh, your grace-"

"I do not denigrate or minimize your great sacrifice," she went on. _I_ _'ll let the bared teeth slip by, boy._ "I only say in my capacity as the King's representative that such promises cannot be made at this time." She looked over at her brother, iron in her eyes. _Don_ _'t countermand me._ "Lord Edmure will do what he can to restore your family from his own coffers, I am sure. Tell Lord Karyl that we have not forgotten him."

The young man looked back and forth between the two of them, but Edmure couldn't meet his gaze, or Catelyn's for that matter. Lady Roslin shrank back as if hoping to merge with the chair or turn to a cloud of dust. Finally, the Vance man sighed and nodded again, adding a curt thank-you and marching out the door with his head held high.

Edmure leaned past his wife and whispered to Catelyn. "The Vances are some of our most important bannermen, Cat, and still have substantial forces under my command. I can't afford to lose them."

"You can't afford to build castles with Stark money either," she hissed. "We'll talk about this later."

Business concluded for the day and the assembled knights, lords, pages, and squires filtered out of the killing room and to their private quarters or out to their camps, depending on station and quality. Edmure whispered a few words into Roslin's ear, prompting a blush and a giggle, and she turned to Catelyn and curtsied slightly.

"Your grace. I will see you tomorrow."

Catelyn answered with a stiff nod. Her body ached too much to do anything more, and she would rather stay seated behind the long desk until she absolutely had to move. After Roslin left, only Catelyn, Edmure, and Ser Wendel remained in the room. The knight and his page worked together to gather his ink set into a large sack and sling it over his massive shoulders.

"Manderly spends his own dragons on sellswords for the war effort," Catelyn said in a low voice, "and he is no great lord. Father has been sick for years and you've been, what, spending all his gold? Where are your stores?"

"Riverrun is well stocked," he said, "but-"

"-it's stocked for a long siege, I know that," she said. "Riverrun is strong, but you should keep your treasures on the other side of the Green Fork for now. When we take Moat Cailan and open up the north, you'll want to be in position for a hasty retreat, if it comes to it."

Edmure frowned, looking down at Ser Wendel as the knight shuffled out of the room. "I don't understand what you mean. Abandon Riverrun?"

" _If it comes to it_ , I said," Catelyn snapped. _Why is he so slow to understand?_ "Riverrun was the greatest fortress of its age, and then someone built a bridge with a castle guarding either side. The Twins can't be surrounded, except if the Lannisters make a deal with our enemies in the north to come through the bogs." _I should not waste breath lecturing him on siege tactics._ _"_ That's not why I brought up the subject. Robb is stretched enough as it is, pouring gold into his war chest to keep his army together, and spending what he has left to bring in more swords from the east. Didn't you hear me talk about the peace? Do you think the Tyrells will send us a caravan of food relief as a way of thanks? Such friends come as free as swords, which is to say not free at all, but a lot of gold goes a little way and we need all of it to avoid fighting Randyll Tarly in the field."

Most of what she said was regurgitated verbatim from Robb's war council meetings with strong military and diplomatic minds, namely Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, and Ser Marq Piper, who did not take after his dullard father in any way but looks. Edmure had missed all of those talks, preferring to spend time with his wife and reassure his bannermen that the war had swung in their favor and the enemy would not ravage their fields again. Those who were healthy enough to go on campaign had joined Robb in the relief of Riverrun, so she was left with few good men like Wendel Manderly and a long list of hangers-on without a clue about the business of war.

Edmure was one of those, and he only nodded sagely at Catelyn's explanation, though from the blank look in his eyes she doubted he really understood what she meant. "The Old Gods have given us a great gift," she said, speaking slowly, "but they have not given us everything. We can't eat guns, and we would be fools to rely on them too heavily, because what the gods give, they may take away, and always at the worst time. We're going to fall flat on our faces if that happens. We must present a front of invincibility and negotiate from there. So do not spend the king's money until he is absolutely sure there is any to spend."

Her brother smiled. "We will defeat them soon enough in the west," he said, reaching over and touching her arm. "You worry too much. Another Lannister host, another easy victory, and the Tyrells will be happy to offer us a deal if we keep the guns away from Highgarden." His wife clutched the crook of his other elbow and leaned against his shoulder, and he reached up to stroke her cheek. _I forgot she was even here._ "But I will follow the king's command."

 _Robb doesn_ _'t need your understanding. Only your obedience._ Catelyn held her tongue and just nodded sharply, then slipped free of his hand and reached for her crutch. Edmure immediately leapt to his feet to help but she waved him off, stood under her own power, and hobbled out the hall and up the stairs. For a second she wondered if she should go back and wish her brother a good evening, but the climb was difficult enough the first time around, and she had a comfortable bed waiting in her stolen quarters.

 _Arya should be back by nightfall._ She'd promised, but who really knew with that girl? Catelyn wondered if she had done the right thing, letting a traumatized child run off into the woods completely alone, but she shook off her apprehensions and focused on moving forward. _I am being tricked by my own paranoia._ Bran and Rickon had been safe behind walls and surrounded by loyal swords, while Arya had spent more than a year lost in the countryside either alone or in the care of the most dangerous men in Westeros. Yet, which among her children had lived, and which had come to harm? Sansa was a prisoner of hostile forces and Robb was out fighting a deadly and determined enemy, but both continued to survive, while Bran and Rickon had been killed within the warmth of Winterfell's embrace.

It seemed that a Stark was only truly in danger when they allowed to think themselves safe. If she was right, then her family was in more danger than ever.

"Please, sister, go back and rest," Edmure whined, for the thousandth time that night. "We will find her, I promise."

Catelyn's heart pounded in her chest and she touched the spreading wetness around her ribs. _I will not argue my point with him again._ She rode on her light palfrey in stony silence for some minutes until, sighing, Edmure finally threw his hands in the air and gave up. She'd probably torn a suture, but it wasn't bleeding enough to alarm her, and she just didn't have the time to go all the way back to the Twins and ask poor old Maester Vyman to give her another go.

She pushed away images of wolves chewing at her daughter's face, savage outlaws using her for their pleasure, and every other monstrous, terrible danger she could imagine. This was Arya, she reminded herself, the same Arya who'd survived a year alone when everyone else thought she was dead. Not a year scrubbing pews in a Sept, either, but a year in the wilderness with some blacksmith's apprentice for company at the best of times, snatched up by brigands and cultists of the red god and even the notorious deserter Sandor Clegane. Yet she had made friends and allies of them all, and survived the wilds and the terrors of war to come to her family alive and well, unharmed, unspoiled. She could survive a single night in the woods.

Bright spots of torchlight danced ahead in the forest, beacons from the dozen other search parties that spread out on foot and horseback through the woods north and west of the Twins. She'd asked these same highborn folk to help the maesters and they'd sent their servants and smallfolk instead, but the moment an opportunity to rescue the king's sister had arrived, they were only too quick to throw on their best-polished armor and chase after their own glory. Most of them took to the easy trails and open plains along the coast, but the hardiest and better skilled searched off the beaten path for any sign of a young girl or the wolf pack she likely ran with.

 _It_ _'s Nymeria she pursues. I can feel it, deep in my bones._ In a different time she might worry about her youngest daughter frolicking with dangerous predators, but the wolves were special, another gift of the Old Gods meant for protection against their enemies. The old scar on her palm tingled with the memory. Grey Wind was a terror in combat, and the letter with news of Jon Snow credited "the wolf" with keeping him safe beyond the wall. Yet even the wolves had failed her younger sons in the most dire time, and Arya had been separated from Nymeria for so long that she wondered if the animal would even remember her at all.

When she told the search parties to focus on the huge wolf pack that roamed that part of the Riverlands, the locals had blanched and nearly run off to conjure up a fresh set of excuses. Catelyn guessed correctly that they and all their honor had come too far to back down and, with a little prodding, two hundred of the idle rich and maybe twenty qualified trackers set off in groups to try and find her lost daughter and bring her back to safety.

She rode with Edmure and six good swords, all young men of birth who were jockeying for a position in Robb's eventual Kingsguard, but tasked for now with preserving the king's uncle and the Queen Mother. _I hate that title. I_ _'ve grown fond of Lady of Winterfell._ Their procession traveled only a few miles off the main road to Seagard, a narrow lane with the treeline hugging close on either side. They'd decided to focus on this particular road based on information from local woodsmen that the dominant deer trails in the area all converged nearby, so any lost child who used the sun to guide her east would wind up there eventually. The young Lord Lymond Goodbrook trailed them by ten lengths and held aloft a huge beacon torch, a twenty-foot tall wooden pole strapped to the saddle and topped by a bonfire. Just behind him was another man with the biggest Tully banner a horse could carry, held as close to the light as possible without catching fire. _Wherever you are, I hope you see that, at least._

"Arya should know that the region is under our control, right?" Edmure said, after a long silence. He was craning his neck back over his shoulder at Lord Lymond and his colossal torch. "I mean, her first instinct won't be to run from the light, will it?"

Catelyn sighed. "She's a smart girl, Edmure. Don't underestimate her." _That_ _'s for a mother and her incessant worrying._ "She'll know to seek out the first trout she sees."

He frowned and nodded, then looked straight ahead as they rode. Now she was wasting time in the countryside while the traitors in Riverrun got up to the gods only know what kind of mischief, and if she were to get lost herself, savaged by forest animals, never to return? Ser Wendel was a true and loyal man, but she did not trust the whole future of her son's kingdom to be placed atop his broad shoulders. _As if I had too few worries already._

Time flew by. She lost track of how far they'd gone, her thoughts consumed by the war, Sansa trapped in King's Landing, Arya lost again in the woods, Ned resting with the gods and Ser Raynald drinking in some hero's hall with Dacey Mormont, Smalljon Umber and the rest who'd died to save their king. Tiny fingers of light peeked over the eastern horizon when a lone horsemen appeared on the top of a distant hill, riding frantically in their direction with a banner rippling behind him. The men around her tensed and reached for weapons as if lulled out of sleep by a sudden noise, but when the sigil revealed itself to be the green dragon and white tower of Vance, all hands relaxed at once.

"Lord Edmure!" he cried, as he closed the distance. The other men parted and let him draw his horse to a halt only a few feet away. The young man slid from the saddle and fell to one knee. "Lady Catelyn, Lord Edmure. I have news."

They got it out of him in a flood of words. He was Ser Ronald Vance's son Norbert, named for his grandfather, and he'd spoken with a villager near the coast who'd heard two blasts of thunder far in the distance beneath a cloudless sky. The commoner had been tossing and turning through a sleepless night when he'd heard it, and though the noise was soft enough not to wake anyone else, he'd used the excuse to leash his dogs and see what the fuss was about.

"And he had a run-in with a brigand of sorts, but the hounds didn't like his scent and chased him off," Ser Norbert said breathlessly. "Young, skinny fellow, didn't look like much."

Catelyn touched the wet spot at her side and winced. "Did he say anything about Arya?"

"The man with the dogs, no," he said, after catching his breath, "and not the brigand neither. Not before he got away. Ser Petyr is running down the man as we speak. He ran in the direction of Seagard, we think."

She struggled to keep her fraying patience in check. "Which Ser Petyr?" There were a hundred Petyrs running around the Riverlands.

"Oh," he said, flushing with embarrassment. "Mallister. Lord Jason's nephew, Ser Patrek's cousin, if it pleases my lady. He's got his own hounds on the trail. You remember how we said the hounds followed Arya's scent to a clearing, but then they all went mad with fright?" She nodded. It had been hours ago. "Well, they've got a new purpose now, and they're on the brigand's trail. Might have already found him by now."

"Distant thunder," Edmure said, mouthing the idea as if trying to get used to it.

 _It_ _'s the guns, you fool._ "Did anyone check the armory before we left?"

Her brother shrugged and the other men looked away in shame. Ser Norbert glanced between them, then turned to Catelyn. "When Petyr and me heard him talk about thunder we thought about what it sounded like when the king used the weapons of the gods back at the Twins. Can't be a coincidence, we don't think."

"You've done well," Catelyn said. She glanced at the red light spilling out over the edge of the world to her east. "The sun's nearly up. Go back to the search party and tell them to expect us on the road to Seagard. We'll meet up somewhere along the way when we have news."

"Of course, my lady," Ser Norbert said, bowing and reaching for the saddle. Edmure muttered his assent but nobody cared. Moments later the young Vance was off at a gallop and vanishing behind distant hilltops.

"We should send riders to pull the search parties from the woods," Edmure said, once he was gone.

Catelyn shook her head. "If she's gotten lost in the woods, she could be anywhere," she said. "It's been hours and hours. Woods, fields, roads, the sea, you name it. We should stay spread out until we know more."

For once, her brother didn't argue. She couldn't turn back until Arya was found alive and whole, and he must have known it. _I will bleed to death on this horse before I give up on her again._ Her side bothered her, but it was only the dull ache left over from her cracked rib, not the stabbing pain of an open wound. Despite the passage of hours the blood had not yet soaked down to her legs, which meant she was right about it being just a torn suture and nothing to be concerned about. _Certainly nothing compared to what the others have survived._ The team reached the main road quickly enough and extinguished the torch as the dawn arrived, flying the trout banner high under the morning sun and trotting along in the hopes that better news would come and find them.

At some point Catelyn blinked, and when she opened her eyes Edmure was shaking her softly by the shoulder and saying something about waking up. "Catelyn, it's Arya," he said. She blinked away confusion and saw him looking at her side and frowning. "We need to get you back before that gets any worse."

"Arya?" Catelyn croaked, then coughed and tried to swallow with a dry throat. Edmure scrambled for a waterskin and put it to her lips. After taking a few sips, she rubbed her eyes and coughed again. "What did you say about Arya?"

"I'm sorry I didn't come back in time," her daughter's voice came to her in a tiny whisper. "I got lost in the woods. I didn't mean to."

Catelyn stared up at Maester Vyman's sweaty forehead and matted gray hair. His ever-scragglier beard moved around in time with the rising and falling of his chin, and with some effort she deduced that he was trying to say something but couldn't manage the words. _Or I can_ _'t hear them._

Finally, she realized he was talking to someone beside her. "She's waking up," he said. "I've done the best I could. Don't bother her with letters and gossip, though. Not until she's stronger."

It was Edmure at her side and she dimly realized he was clutching her hand. The scent of iron touched her nose and a stabbing pain throbbed at her side. Arya sat perched like a cat on a stool next to him, a long thin piece of metal jutting out of her hip. She twisted her face up and horror and pointed, but Arya looked down and touched the hilt of her sword just as Catelyn realized it was attached _to_ her, not through.

"It's Needle, mother," she said, frowning. "Don't you remember?"

Catelyn's last memory was hugging Arya and hearing her chatter about something called Polliver. When she pulled away she had touched her shirt and the fingers came away sticky, wet, and red, and then the world was spinning and Vyman's wrinkly face was hovering over her.

"I tried to take it away from her," Edmure said, his voice tinged with shame. Arya glared at him and he shriveled away. "But she insisted. I can hardly refuse a princess."

"I said I'd run off again if he touched Needle," Arya spat. "And I meant it."

"Enough of that nonsense," Vyman said, shooing away both Edmure and a woman standing next to him. _Roslin, ever the silent shadow._ "Give her some privacy, please, all of you."

Arya slid off the stool and took a step away, but Catelyn reached up with her empty hand and snatched her shirt. "She stays," she croaked, and her daughter obeyed. She knelt where Edmure had been a moment ago, taking her mother's hand and squeezing it against her cheek. Vyman sighed and pulled her blanket back to poke around Catelyn's ribs some more.

"It was my fault," Arya said between sniffles.

Catelyn smiled and shook her head sadly. "No, child. I acted a fool."

"Your mother is right on that count," Vyman said, pouting.

They ignored him. "I was safe. I had the gods with me." She lifted the corner of her shirt and patted her right hip, and Vyman's eyes bulged when he spotted the silvered metal holstered under her belt. "I found the Mountain's men out there. I think Nymeria led me to them, or something. Didn't you say the Old Gods sent the wolves to us too?"

Catelyn's head spun all over again and she closed her eyes to try and right the world. "The Mountain is dead," she finally said. "Your friend killed him at Riverrun."

Wendel Manderly had excitedly shoved the letter in her face the night before, while she was too busy worrying about Arya to concern herself with the progress of the war. Robb had won yet another easy victory, it read, and the enemy was set to retreat even further into the Riverlands. The battle of Riverrun had been even shorter than the one at the Twins, and she could only hope the string of good fortune might continue forever. _Until the guns run dry._ Ser Daven Lannister had taken command of the scattered host, but plagued by rumors of sorcery and the accompanying mass desertions, he'd failed to put together an army that could hold the field against conventional steel, let alone the power of the gods.

Even with Clegane dead and the vanguard scattered, the enemy had not taken the kind of catastrophic losses she'd prefer, and with the enemy marching west, they would be at strength soon again. _It seems they will never run out of lions._

"Ser Wendel said he's going to Riverrun right away," Arya said, picking at her mud-caked nails. "I said I would get a litter ready but he said you needed to rest. Everyone always needs to rest."

Catelyn tried to sit up with a start, but her body wasn't cooperating. Arya had been chattering at speed again and Catelyn hadn't heard a word of it, lost as she was in thoughts of the war. "I didn't hear you, love," she said. _Gods, my chest hurts._ "Ser Wendel and Riverrun?"

"It was when the maester said you were hurt again," Arya explained. "He came by to see you earlier, while you were still asleep, and he looked worried about something and wouldn't say what. He said he would have to leave immediately. I think that's what he said, anyway. He sounds so funny now, with all the bandages around his throat."

 _The Spicers. I am being tested by the gods, and I keep coming up a disappointment._ Catelyn reached up and stroked Arya's face, stained with dirt as always. "No, he can't leave without me. I have to go to Riverrun. Go and fetch him, love."

Her face twisted in confusion. "But-"

"I won't have any of that!" Vyman said, chin and finger wagging. "I won't lose another one, not because of some willful woman who hates herself too much to heal."

If she had the strength, she would have hit him. "Get Ser Wendel now," Catelyn hissed. Pain lanced under her ribs and she groaned. "Now!"

"He's gone already," Arya said, frowning. "It's been days. Didn't you know?"

Vyman tut-tutted some more, but Catelyn pressed on and got the rest out of them. Ser Wendel had apparently taken it upon himself to deal with some unspecified issue at Riverrun, leaving a sealed letter with instructions that it was for the Queen Mother's eyes only, no exceptions. _I know the answer to that mystery._ Her heart pounded while she waited for Arya to fetch her the letter, fearing Edmure's meddling or some other mishap while she was insensate, but when her daughter breathlessly shoved the envelope into her shaky hands, the little wax merman remained intact. _Thank the gods for that small favor._

"I found it," Arya said, beaming. "Just where you said it was, in Ser Wendel's old room. I had to break the lock on his desk."

The tip of her sword clattered against the frame of the next bed over and Catelyn laughed. "Put that in a sheath, at least, or you'll stab one of my neighbors."

Arya frowned again and looked around, confused, but Vyman shooed her away. "The lady needs her privacy. Come along, now, little one."

"Just wait one moment," Catelyn said. She broke the seal and dumped the contents in her lap. Two notes fell out of the envelope, one a full-sized folded parchment, and the other tiny and meant for a raven's foot. She set the raven message aside and focused on the letter first, which was covered in Ser Wendel's large and elegant script.

" _The Imp offers Sansa_ _'s safe return._ " Catelyn's lips moved as she read, but she stayed silent. " _He_ _'s asked to negotiate with you personally, when you're feeling up to it. In the meantime, Riverrun has been liberated by the grace of the gods, so I will execute the matter we discussed in private, and I will do so in utter secrecy in respect of its sensitive nature. You need not trouble yourself further with the king's internal security. I hope Arya is well, and I look forward to your hasty recovery. Write me at Riverrun the moment you can. - Wendel Manderly, Knight of White Harbor_."

 _The gods gave him the wisdom to speak in code._ "He's gone on without me," she said. "How far could he have gotten?"

Vyman thought it over. "Well, if you send a bird now, it ought to get there before he arrives, if that's what you mean-"

"I mean if I were to send a _horse,_ with me tied to the saddle. The gods old and new are my witness, Vyman, and if you insist I sit around and rest one more time, I'll have you thrown into the burn pit right next to the headless corpse of Walder Frey."

His next words died on his lips, and the skin around his neck waggled. Arya proved the more able tongue. "He's taken a carriage," she said, "one of the big slow ones that take forever, so if you hurry-"

"I'll catch him," she said. "You'll stay in-"

"You aren't going to make me stay in this place," she said. "Not when you've said all that to Vyman." Arya looked up at the flustered maester, who couldn't meet her eyes. "You're coming too, right? We're all going to get the fastest horses in the Riverlands and catch him quick as we can."

Catelyn thought of riding at full gallop like she was a girl again, and her torso burned in anticipation of every strike of the hoof. "I'll settle for a cart, if it's fast. We'll have men ride ahead as well, just in case. Either way, I want to get to Riverrun as quickly as possible now. The business we have there is…" She frowned, thinking of how much to reveal. "The most urgent business there will ever be."

Vyman looked around the infirmary. "You're my last living patient, dear. I suppose I had to leave this awful place eventually."

 _Am I?_ The cots next to her were empty, she realized, bloodstained and still covered in filthy sheets, but the occupants had either walked away or been carried off long enough ago that the crimson was dark, dry, and flaked. She even picked out Ser Raynald's bed, completely untouched since he'd given his last testament and passed in front of her eyes.

"Not so many wounded from the second battle, then?" she said quietly.

Vyman shook his head. "The gods are capricious, my lady, and terrible with your enemies. I fear they left hardly any living casualties behind, and those that they did?" He shrugged. "They did not linger for too long."

"Make the preparations immediately," she said. "Any Northman who you can find, bring them, especially if they are part of Ser Wendel's retinue and were left behind. I want every Northman south of Moat Cailin with me at Riverrun. Run and get it done, and be fast. We are leaving within the hour."

Vyman and Arya ran off to do as she bid. Catelyn nearly asked Arya to stop and stay with her, but she was being foolish, and she still had another of Ser Wendel's secret letters to read, a little raven-sized note wrapped around her finger. It was written in smaller and tighter letters, neat and efficient handwriting that she didn't recognize, but the letter was addressed to her directly.

She mouthed the words. " _Looking forward to only having six kingdoms to manage. Five, if I can convince the Greyjoys to fuck off. No hard feelings about the Eyrie. Family makes fools of us all. Regards, The Hand._ "


	14. Sansa III

SANSA

Another day, another dungeon. Sansa only spent one mostly sleepless night in her highborn prison before the Faith changed their mind. She had been thrown back into the cells reserved for the rapers and horse thieves, a dark place without changes of clothing or the faintest hope of a bath. The High Septon had given the order, but it was the king's word that put her there. Poor little Tommen, misled by all his keepers to think that Sansa was some cruel northern witch come to kill his brother and steal away his beloved uncle with her feminine sorceries. _If I could turn into a wolf, I_ _'d have killed your mother already._

She sighed and shook off the anger. The boy was not to blame. Cersei claimed Tyrion to be in league with his conniving temptress, but oddly enough, all the other winged power brokers circling the throne dismissed the idea. Sansa had to bear the brunt of the accusations instead, and they came from all sides, even Mace Tyrell, whose mother recused herself from the witness stand on account of their previous friendship. _At least I did not have to hear her lie about me._ Of the liars, that old sycophant Pycelle distinguished himself among champions of false witness, whispering suggestions about the higher mysteries and secret powers of the First Men. Who is to say what the Stark woman was really up to all those times she'd prayed at the Godswood? Perhaps she meant to use wicked magic to transform the heart tree into a true weirwood, from which she could command her army of grumpkins to descend upon King's Landing and tear all the good and loyal subjects of the Throne into scraps of meat and hair, to feast on their entrails and bury their souls in the roots of the white trees, or whatever the imaginations of idiots could conjure.

And they took Tyrion away from her. For the first time since the day Joffrey had murdered her father, she had a companion who shared her dilemma and even seemed to care about her well-being. Ser Dontos had disappeared, and not just from their midnight meetings by the heart tree, but had vanished from court entirely. Tommen had even asked after him in front of the whole court, but Cersei had just pulled him into her arms and told him not to worry. _I bet she had him killed._ Ser Dontos had been uglier than Tyrion and drunk twice as often, and though Sansa always hoped he would have come through on his master plan to whisk her away to safety, she knew he was a penniless, powerless failure who probably spilled his treason to the wrong ears over a mug of ale. Tyrion was a _lord_ now, and people didn't call him that as an honorific like they did the landless eunuch Lord Varys. Since Tywin had died, Tyrion had become one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms, and undoubtedly the richest. _And the most cunning, by half._

After Tommen had freed both him and Ser Kevan, the Kingsguard had restored order and the witnesses offered their testimony, but Tyrion did not or could not return to her side, and all of her advocates seemed to evaporate at once. Ser Ilyn, for one, was a no-show, and Ser Kevan fled the hearing before she could ask why. She'd gradually tuned out the voices until they were little more than a low murmur against her beating heart. When the mummer's show had finally ended, they'd led her down to her new cell and left her alone in the dim light of a handful of braziers, wearing her good clothes and armed with promises of tomorrow and another round of humiliation. _When will this finally end?_

As she thought about her family fighting in the Riverlands, her father's death, her little husband's awkward affections, and the mystery of Joffrey's murder, the door at the end of the hall creaked open and let the daylight spill inside.

"I was just thinking about you," she said, when she saw the short form of Tyrion Lannister silhouetted against the doorway.

He walked up to her cell, but she didn't stand from her cot or even looked up to acknowledged him. "Lady Sansa," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry I haven't-"

"You ran off on me," she blurted out. _Don_ _'t be so hard on him._ "You left me there all alone while old men called me a witch." She snapped her eyes up to meet his. "You're supposed to protect me. Where have you _been?_ "

His face twisted in honest agony, and a pang of guilt touched her stomach. Tyrion wrapped his stubby hands around the bars on her cell and looked down at his feet. "I'm sorry. I've been working to get you freed. I've had business to see to, and the war, and-"

He paused, then reached up to his neck and pulled a gold chain free from his doublet. Not just any chain, either, but a linked set of golden hands grasping one another down his chest. _From a kingslayer to a king._ He wasn't just coming to her as the exonerated Lord of Casterly Rock, but a greater power than he had ever been, a true Hand without the caveat of serving at his father's pleasure. While she languished in a dungeon, Tyrion had been winning control of the Seven Kingdoms, so why didn't he have a ring of keys in his hand? _His cup overflows with power and he can_ _'t spare an ounce of it to save me._ She wanted to scream at him, beg him to let her go, call him every humiliating name she knew and make up a hundred more, but instead she grit her teeth and quivered with barely restrained rage.

"It's good to be a Lannister," she finally seethed.

"Ser Kevan doesn't want the honor," Tyrion said, ignoring her jibe. He looked to her balled fists and frowned. "I'm not sure I do either, but he was quite adamant about throwing the chain at the first beggar he sees if I didn't take it. I suppose it's preferable to letting Mace Tyrell do the job."

"Mace Tyrell," Sansa said, turning up her nose at the sound of his name. _Another lecher._ "He said I was a seductress who had come to his bedchamber nightly," she said. "He told them I walked through the open door in the nude, and he described my body to everyone who would listen, but he insisted that only the strength of his faith kept him honest. Then he said that I would drift to other bedchambers and have better success, and my sins would reach his ears and keep him awake every night."

Tyrion started to make some stupid joke about a lion wearing cuckold's horns but checked himself halfway, grimaced, and touched his golden chain with one hand while squeezing a bar with the other. "I'm sorry, Sansa. I'm sorry I couldn't be there, I really am. I am working to get you out of here. Both of us, really. Jaime is back and I'm going to convince him to be Tommen's Hand so we can get away from all of this drama and head for Casterly Rock."

Sansa sneered. "By land, if I could be so lucky. I hear there are wolves about."

"I have some good news on that front," Tyrion said, dropping his hand from the chain. "Good news for you, and bad news for the Iron Throne, but I'll start with something we can all be thankful for. Your sister is alive."

She took a second to comprehend what he'd just said. Sansa's jaw dropped and her body flushed with sudden excitement and worry, then elation, then confusion all at once. Her hands shook and she pressed both dirty palms flat against her mouth. "Arya?" she squeaked.

"Aye," Tyrion said, grinning broadly. "That's the right sister. Alive and free, to be specific, and it was the Hound of all people who saved her. He found her wandering the Riverlands and brought her back to her mother, hale and hearty. Now he's leading your brother's armies." He paused, judging her reaction, but her eyes were frozen in shock. "I thought you might want to know."

"Oh, Tyrion!" she shouted, leaping from her cot to her feet. She ran up to the bars and grabbed Tyrion about his shoulders. He recoiled in surprise but she pulled him into what could charitably be called an embrace, and his face would have been pressed up against her stomach were it not for the iron between them. "This is wonderful! Arya! Sandor!" Her knees shook and her vision blurred as tears flooded her eyes and poured down her face. _My Sandor saved Arya. If only I_ _'d let him save me too._

"I thought you'd like to know," he repeated, then pulled back from her arms. They held hands for a brief second and she looked down into his eyes, but he was wary. "I didn't know you and the Hound were on a first name basis."

Their hands fell apart and she looked away. "He saved my life, once. Do you remember?"

"When someone threw shit at Joffrey," he said, grinning for a brief second, then letting his face fall blank. "I guess he made an impression."

 _You could say that._ "He is a true knight, though he wouldn't ever admit it."

"He's in the right place, then," Tyrion said, smiling broadly. The uncertainty disappeared and his eyes lit up with sudden joy. "Those Northmen aren't as loose with the Sers as we are down here, I'm sure you know. But I'm glad to finally be able to give you some good news. It's been nothing but shit for both of us."

"How did you find out?" Sansa asked.

The little man shrugged. "Some spy, I don't know who. Ser Kevan has known for more than a week but elected not to tell us. I'd ask him why, but he left the castle before I could even pick the chain up from the ground." He tugged at the golden hands again. "I just finished going through his letters. Ser Daven leads the Lannister armies in the west, but he is forced a continual retreat thanks to your brother's propensity for astonishing victories. The Mountain still maintains a siege around Riverrun, but desertions are blossoming, and I expect to get the bad news any moment now. Ser Daven speaks of wolves, hounds, and sorcery. Bully for the North, all things considered."

Daven Lannister was Tyrion's cousin, she knew, a distant branch and far down the line of succession. He was just a name on a list to her, and she cared to learn little more. _Update me when he_ _'s dead._

She smirked. "How do you expect us to be able to retire to Casterly Rock when it's in Stark hands?"

Tyrion wagged a finger at her. "Not so fast. The war isn't over quite yet, and the Tyrells-" he paused, grimaced, then continued, "-are coming with an army forty thousand strong. Not even Sandor Clegane can break that. With that kind of force assembling against your brother, I think we can work out a permanent peace, one that your side will find quite favorable, if you all can put the claws away long enough to talk. Ser Daven only needs to hold for so long."

 _That_ _'s exactly what they said about Tywin Lannister._ "How do you know the Tyrells are coming to help?"

"Because I talked to that old pervert about it and he gave me his assurances," Tyrion said. "Technically it's one of his sons who leads the force, but Mace enjoys taking credit in absentia. I'm a fan of his grain and his steel, but I wouldn't mind if he got trampled by a horse in the early stages of the battle. Lady Margaery is quite a bit more agreeable, don't you think?"

She was as much a liar as all of them. For a time, Sansa had believed Tyrion was the exception, but now he was dressed in a lord's finery with all the power of the Seven Kingdoms and his wife was in a cell. News of Arya had made her forget that for a few blessed minutes, but the moment had passed.

She narrowed his eyes at him and backed away. "Thank you for the news. Can you make sure I'm given a bath before my execution? I wouldn't want to defile my father's sword any more than I have to."

"Sansa," he said, reaching through the bars for her, but his arm was just as short as the rest of him. "Sansa, no, I'm going to get you out of here, I promise."

 _Then why didn_ _'t you lead with that?_ "You were such a disappointment," Sansa said quietly. He recoiled from the bars, and she turned her back and faced a blank wall. "I had someone else working to free me, but he was a disappointment, too, and then I let myself believe you were really on my side. Not that I thought you were going to turn your cloak, though I tried anyway, but I'd hoped you would at least protect me from harm in a softer prison while I waited for the real heroes to sweep down from the north and wipe the filth out of this city." She spat at his feet. "But you are busy, so don't let me keep you any longer. I would rather be left here to dream about my family, and thank the gods for sparing my sister. Go find your whore."

He clutched his chest as if her words had pierced his heart. _At least you weren_ _'t cruel. I'll ask Sandor to spare your life._ "I _am_ on your side," he whispered.

She refused to look directly at him, but out of the corner of her eye she saw him staring at his feet and slumping his shoulders. _What now, you child?_ She wanted to hurl more insults at him, but the words caught in her throat. He meant no offense by his incompetence, and besides, he didn't have to come down here and warm her heart with tales of Arya and Sandor. _Why am I being so awful with him?_ If he just wanted to leave her to rot he could be in Shae's bed right now, or on a boat to Braavos, or whatever else he wanted.

"I forgive you," she said, adding a heavy sigh. "I forgive you for your failures, and your nature, and for being on the wrong side of those bars while your wife withers away."

"The king-"

"You ARE the king!" she screamed. Sansa practically leapt from her cot to the bars, slamming against them with her chest and sending Tyrion flying back against the wall. He fell over on his ass like a child as young as Rickon and whacked his head against the bare stone. "You hide behind the will of a little boy a fourth your age and twice your height! His regents rule, _not him_ , and by the time that changes my brother will have already raised the wolf banner over this wretched place. Tommen's word means _nothing_ , even less than yours. I don't care who convinced him that I turned into a wolf and ate his brother. I don't care what terrible burdens you juggle, or how you think it'll look like you let Robb Stark's sister get away with murder, or what Mace Tyrell fantasizes about at night or how sad you are that your stumpy little cock doesn't have a castle to come into. You go upstairs and you find a gaoler with a set of keys and you get me _out of here!_ "

With her last words she slammed the bars with the heel of both hands. Pain lanced up her arms but she ignored it. Her chin shook and fresh tears filled her eyes. _Make another excuse, dwarf, make another excuse. I dare you._ They stared at each other, her from inside the cell and him seated against the wall with the low-burning brazier directly over his head. If he'd been a foot taller, he probably would have caught his hair on fire when she shoved him. His face twisted with anguish, and after a few moments, he looked away. For maybe the first time in his life, Tyrion Lannister had absolutely nothing to say.

Sansa lay back down on her cot and wept. She heard the door shut behind her and the extra light vanished. Within moments, she was asleep.

The trial began in earnest days later.

With the witness testimony concluded, Sansa finally had the opportunity to confront her accusers, and they made her do it without a bath this time. _Ser Kevan gave me that luxury, at least._ Lannister men came to fetch her, and though she looked among their feet for her husband, he was nowhere to be found. _Off losing wars, I hope._

Perhaps he really would take that carriage to Casterly Rock. Perhaps wolves would beset him on the road and Robb could add the chain to his list of trophies. Tyrion could wear a funny hat and dance and sing like Ser Dontos, and she could come to Winterfell to laugh and mock him. _All of my saviors are fools._

As her escort pushed her along through the Red Keep, her kingly husband waddled past, his entourage at his heels. That sellsword of his, Bronn, was right at his shoulder, and the two of them were sharing some jape when Tyrion spotted her. He froze for a second, blushed, and hurried along around a corner and out of sight. _Go and do something important._

The guards led her to the doors of the sept, but when she stopped and reached for the doors herself, a guardsmen cleared his throat and drew her attention away. They were all standing further down the hallway, and their commander was gesturing for her to follow. Confused, she pulled her hand back and followed on. They led her through familiar corridors and past the throne room, then down into the foyer and out the portcullis into open air.

She dare not ask questions and they didn't bother to offer explanations. For a brief, ludicrous moment, she thought they might be taking her to freedom and safety. _Did he come through for me after all?_ But Sansa could never be so lucky, and when the guards took her past the Tower of the Hand and out into the yard, she saw that the crowd was merely too large to fit inside the castle proper.

It couldn't have been a thousand people, but she felt at least two thousand eyes crawl across her body as she walked down the steps. She'd been so careful to keep her dress free of stains, but her hair was an unruly mess, her hands and face were smeared with dirt, and she didn't need anyone to tell her just how much she stunk. The Faith was among the gawkers, as expected, plus a smattering of highborn women and the occasional elderly lord like Harys Swyft. _Where are all the men?_

The king was absent, too, as was his mother and everyone else who thought themselves a proper lion. A young woman in a dark veil sat in the place for the aggrieved party, which led Sansa to guess she was Margaery Tyrell. Her grandmother sat behind her, and when Sansa met her eyes, Lady Olenna actually waved. _How am I supposed to respond to that? Are we old friends?_ But Mace Tyrell wasn't with her, so that was one blessing, and though she looked all around, she could not find a single white cloak.

The judges sat behind a small version of the long bench in the Sept, though the High Septon notably lacked the imposing stained glass figure of the Father looming behind him. Instead, he and the others had only the bare stone of the outer curtain wall as decoration. On the left side of the table sat a box meant for the accused, a small enclosed space so the guards could safely lock her up. Inside, she would stand in front of a podium to listen to, and eventually rebut, the accusations coming her way.

Normally, the accused would have some family or other patron at hand to defend them, but Sansa's only family were traitors and Tyrion, and he couldn't be bothered to pull himself away from counting dragons and fucking whores. She lacked even a counsel educated in the finer points of the law, mostly because Tyrion's insistence on a trial by the Faith meant that the usual Throne laws didn't even apply. Sansa knew only one Septa who might speak on her behalf, but her head had rotted on a spike next to her father's, and the thought made her stomach roil with fury and terror.

 _I will not let them see me weak._ She straightened her back, raised her chin high and refused to meet the eyes of the gossiping crowd. She did spare a glance for Margaery, but the veil gave nothing away, and Sansa deliberately made sure not to acknowledge the panel of Septas and Septons who would shortly pronounce her guilty. Septa Oxen didn't exist, as far as she cared. Smiling, Sansa slowed her pace enough that the soldiers had to nudge her across the yard to the defendant's box, but she refused to hurry. _I will get there at my own pace._

Finally, a gold cloak raised the bar on the back of the chamber and she drifted inside, thanking him with a slight nod, spread her skirt and sat down on the flat, hard bench inside. The box could comfortably seat about six people of normal size, or about sixteen Tyrions, and the podium had four little steps to climb before an adult could stand at the proper height. _I would have to boost him on my shoulders._ She allowed herself a private chuckle at the thought and did not look at, nor care about, what anyone thought. Not in the slightest.

"Lady Sansa?" a quiet voice said nearby.

She ignored the voice while it repeated itself quickly and more urgently. A man's voice, older and kind, but not a pushover. She decided to hear him in her own time, then finally sighed as if bearing the world's burden, then turned around to see who was addressing her.

"Lord Tyrion has asked me to act as your counsel," Varys said.

 _The eunuch?_ He was plump as ever and draped in silk, smooth-skinned and unsettling, and had apparently crept up on her unnoticed. _Where were you hiding? Under the bench?_ She had barely seen or spoken to him at all in all the long months and years of her imprisonment, from the day of her father's arrest, through her torturous betrothal, to her dungeon adventures and ending in that very moment. Tyrion had dealt with him in his stints as Hand, but for most of that time Sansa had done all she could do to avoid anyone with a lion pinned to their cloak. Though he presented himself as a Lannister loyalist, who could really know?

He smiled broadly and bowed. "I am in your service, Lady Sansa, if you'd only allow me the honor."

His voice was soft and velvety, as if whispering in her ear, though he spoke at a normal tone and was almost completely drowned out by the crowd's idle chatter. His feet were wrapped in the same soft fabrics he might use to prance around the Red Keep's carpeted interior. _What kind of man wears bedside slippers outdoors?_ She realized for the first time that most of the audience was pointing at them and gossiping with one another, some making the sign of the Seven-Pointed Star and others fanning themselves as if the mere sight of the dreaded eunuch was giving them the vapors.

"And you think you'll do more good than harm?" Sansa said, loud enough for the judges to hear.

He giggled, a queer, childish noise that made his cheeks flush and his flabby body wobble. "I have a gift for finding the truth in things, you see, and your husband has asked me to kindly make sure you keep your pretty little head on your exquisite shoulders. His words, not mine."

"Then sit," she said, gesturing to the bench. "But why now? Why is this the first time I've seen you? I've been in that hole for days, and we could have been planning our testimony."

"Because I was not asked until just now," he said, grinning a shark's grin. "Besides, your husband and I have been busy. The seven kingdoms do not revolve around you, my exceptionally tall friend. Now let us hope we can exonerate you before matters get even busier."

She opened her mouth to ask him what in the seven hells he meant by that, but he only coughed politely and pointed to the judge's panel. She turned to see the High Septon standing tall and holding a long oak staff in his right hand. _He does not look so infirm now._ The High Septon glared at the raucous crowd, then slammed the butt of the staff on the ground again and again until the sound echoed off the walls around them and caught the crowd's attention.

"I said silence!" he shouted, at the highest voice his tired old lungs could manage. _I didn_ _'t hear you the first time._ "The accused is entitled to counsel, if she can find someone willing to take on the task. Her husband has recused himself from the task on account of impropriety." _Was that a pun?_ "The aggrieved will state their accusations now, and the accused will be given time to confront those accusations."

Sansa doubted the people in the back could hear a word he said. Though his hard eyes, set jaw, and strong posture belied a strength and passion she'd missed before, time had damaged his voice in a way that could not be obscured by bluster. _You should have Septa Oxen do the yelling._

"So sad that Cersei couldn't be here," Varys whispered, adding a short titter to the end. "She's set to miss her moment of triumph. Woe to whomever takes the blame when she wakes from her stupor and finds you free as a bird."

 _A little bird._ Her heart panged for Sandor, but she would not see him again until the war ended, she was sure of it. He would be given lands in the north and a wife of moderate station, perhaps a younger daughter of a powerful lord, someone who made a solid contribution to the war effort and deserved to have a great hero added to his family. Even if Robb could secure her release by treaty, he'd likely be settled and married before they spoke. The war might drag on until the day Northmen razed King's Landing, she knew, and by then he'd have a litter of angry little pups running around.

"Did you need me to repeat that?" Varys said, his voice calm and patient.

She shook her head and banished thoughts of the Hound, of her sister, and the future. If she didn't concentrate on surviving this very day, the future was a moot point. "Sorry," she finally said, feeling a flush in her neck. "I'm sorry, please repeat what you said after you talked about poisoning Cersei."

He balked and covered his mouth in both hands, eyes wide with laughably exaggerated shock and horror. "I said nothing of the sort! But she does toss and turn and dream terrible dreams, or so I am told. Perhaps it was something she ate." His mock outrage disappeared and he chuckled softly to himself. "I was saying that most of the witnesses who offered their testimony in the hearing are absent, so all we have to do is argue with a piece of paper." He reached into a pocket under his vest, then drew out a stack of the thinnest parchments she'd ever seen. "I have copies here, and I've made notes of the best arguments in preparation. It's quite simple, really. I don't understand why anyone bothers to pay a counselor for this sort of work."

"Not all of us are so untroubled by life to waste time studying law," Sansa said, careful to keep the venom out of her tone and mostly failing. _For the Father_ _'s sake, woman, stop shitting all over people who say they want to help you._ If Tyrion really had asked the Master of Whispers to speak on her behalf, then maybe he hadn't truly abandoned her after all. Or maybe this was just the result of a week of guilt and shame gnawing at him, so he'd put in the bare minimum effort to make sure his frigid shrew of a wife didn't turn him into a widower.

If her words and manner had offended him, Varys gave no sign. "He assures me that he would have been here," he said, as if reading her mind. "I will leave it to him to catch you up once you are free, but I ask you to trust me for now."

"What about Ser Ilyn?" she said. "Where is he? What did Tyrion tell you about him?"

"Later." He pointed over her shoulder to the dais that stood in front of the aggrieved. "We must hush. They are beginning."

Olenna Tyrell was on her feet and holding a long parchment in her hand that Sansa guessed contained her son's absentee testimony. She stopped to snap at Margaery at a volume far too quiet to hear, though the young widow did not lift the veil or appear to respond beyond a slight wave of the hand. Grand Maester Pycelle, the oldest and most repulsive pervert out of the whole lot of them, waddled up behind the Queen of Thorns and croaked something in that ancient, dusty voice of his, but she shooed him off with an obscene gesture and he stumbled back with his jaw dropped.

 _Even if she_ _'s betrayed me, I still like her._ Finally, Olenna Tyrell slowly stepped up to the top of the dais, an open platform that lacked the comforting podium of Sansa's little box. Out in the open like that, Margaery's grandmother looked more weak and tired than ever, a frail old coot nearly as useless as the lecher behind her. _If only I were half the master of the mummer_ _'s trade._ Sansa smiled involuntarily, while Varys shuffled papers behind her. He tapped her on the shoulder and handed her a sheet listing all of Mace Tyrell's awful lies.

"Sorry," he muttered, and his voice oddly deepened when he said it. The eunuch cleared his throat, and his voice returned to its usual androgynous nonsense. "I hate to read this, you know. I get my fair share of slander, it is true, but women must endure the worst of all."

 _And must I endure it from my fellow woman?_ A thought suddenly occurred. "Where is Margaery's testimony?" Sansa blurted out. In all the drama of the original hearing, Margaery had not said a word.

"Her father mumbled something about how she was so traumatized by the crime that she asked him to relay the story," Varys explained. "Not that he bothered to do so on the stand. It helps us, at any rate, even if it is humiliating in the short term. The last thing we need is a credible witness talking about magic wolves."

"I am here to speak on behalf of my son," Olenna announced, her voice shaky and strained. She wobbled on a little cane and seemed to nearly fall over, but when a gold cloak rushed to assist her she waved him off. "I do appreciate the help from such a strapping young lad, but I can manage on my own. My conviction in seeing the murderer brought to justice gives me strength."

She glared at Sansa while she spoke. _Nevermind, I hate you again._ The Queen of Thorns cleared her throat and peered at the words on the page. "Oh, yes, my son's testimony. He spoke for his daughter and I speak for him. Funny how these things happen, but he is needed on the battlefield, you see. He must protect us all from the usurpers and traitors who harangue us from all sides. My granddaughter is, as you all know, so caught up in grief and trauma that she can not bring herself to speak the words here in public. It was all we could do to coax them out of her in the safety of her own quarters and her family's loving embrace. But she wishes to see justice done, too, so she is here, hmm?"

The Queen of Thorns looked down at Margaery, who sat still with her hands in her lap, like a living doll or a mummer's prop. After a few seconds of silence, she turned up to look in Olenna's general direction, or maybe over her shoulder at a passing bird for all Sansa could tell, then nodded curtly and returned to admiring her feet.

The crowd sighed in sympathetic pain. "So I will go into the sordid details now, if you don't mind," Olenna continued, and sordid those details were.

Sansa kept herself composed through the whole litany of preposterous accusations, bizarre insults, and vicious attacks on her person, her womanhood, her family, her gods, and whatever else could come writhing out of the persecutor's imagination. Olenna made a convincing portrait of a kind old grandmother beset by the terrible burden of describing the worst of humanity, her long-fought innocence shattered by sordid tales of adultery, bestiality, witchcraft, devilry, and even incest. _You_ _'re roaring at the wrong lion._ Notably, not a word of it contained an account of what happened on the day of Joffrey's murder, but Sansa had expected that even without the draft in front of her face.

"Oh, my," Olenna said, fanning herself with the parchment and wobbling on her cane. "I can't read this next part, I'm sorry. My son describes the girl's, let's say, attributes, that only her husband should ever see. Sorcery is involved, we'll leave it there. Anyway, where was I?"

"Does Mace Tyrell even know what a nude woman looks like?" Varys whispered in her ear. "I always heard he fucked his wife through a hole in the sheet." Sansa struggled to suppress a grin.

"And Lord Tyrion most likely knew nothing of the plot," Olenna concluded. "He has even been denied a share of her bed, as the accused's own testimony has admitted. I can't imagine what that must be like, the poor, put-upon man. The Hand works so hard to defend our home from the King's many enemies, just as he did the last time Stannis Baratheon tried to swim up into our ports. Doesn't he deserve a more willing woman?"

 _I suppose that_ _'s one reason to execute someone._ The ladies in the crowd fanned themselves and nodded their agreement, then scowled at Sansa and turned up their noses in disgust. Finally finished, Olenna rolled up her parchment and turned to leave.

"Lady Olenna," Varys shouted. Though he kept the usual lilting tone, his voice carried enough to catch everyone's attention, including the Queen of Thorns. "I believe it is our opportunity to confront your testimony."

"But it is my son's testimony," she said, arching an eyebrow as if completely befuddled by Varys's unreasonable demand. "He is not here. Do I look like a man in his forties to you? Or can your kind simply not distinguish between the sexes?"

The crowd laughed softly and the High Septon rolled his eyes and smacked the stone with his staff again, this time without standing up. "If you will not address the accused's concerns," he said to Olenna, as the crowd died back down, "then you will at least stand there and listen."

Olenna frowned, and a spasm of pain crossed her face. She leaned ever more on her little cane and gasped. "I will try my best, your high holiness, but I fear my strength is at an end, and it is quite a tumble down these stairs."

Sansa guessed that the High Septon was entirely familiar with her frailty act, but her performance was tailored for the masses, not the savvy players in the audience. He sighed heavily and waved a hand toward Varys. "Quickly, now, before the old woman expires in front of us."

Varys rattled through his rebuttals in quick succession. Sansa was still a maid, he insisted, and the Faith was welcome to inspect her if they wished before rendering verdict. _I_ _'ll take the noose._ Mace Tyrell wasn't even in King's Landing during the times he claimed to have been visited in the night, which either meant she was appearing naked in his dreams, or he was getting her confused with a very tall whore. The audience laughed at that little jibe, though Olenna put one wrinkly hand up to her mouth as if appalled by the mere suggestion. _And you probably picked her out._

"I should add that the rumors of relations with wolves are unfounded. Lady Sansa's wolf was a female when she lived, making such a coupling difficult to arrange at best, even if you brought a necromancer." He waited a few moments for the crowd to mull that over. _He_ _'s putting the idea in their heads before submitting the proof. Hopefully._ "Furthermore, we speak of scurrilous rumors unrelated to the murder and not relevant to the subject of the lady's guilt or innocence. Remember, we have come here for a murder trial, not an indictment of character. Are we even certain how our blessed king died? I have heard many a rumor, each more ludicrous than the next, and I have observed proceedings from the start and spent hours shuffling through stacks and stacks of testimony." He pulled out said stacks and waved them around, sighing with the effort of it all. "Yet, I see no sworn word describing the act itself, despite a living witness sitting before us. I would say, let the accuser describe the manner of the killing and precisely how the accused is responsible, so we may respond in kind."

Varys was telling a half-truth, but even a quarter-truth was good enough defense against the onslaught of lies. Ser Kevan had stemmed the tide of the worst rumors from the start, for which Sansa was incredibly grateful, as she did not savor the chance to explain to everyone that, no, she did not rip Joffrey's throat out with her teeth and howl at the sun in front of the whole wedding procession. In bringing up the lack of sworn testimony, Varys had made a point strong enough that even the most bloodthirsty woman-hater in the crowd had to stop and consider it. Why _hadn_ _'t_ they heard Margaery's side of the story?

When Varys finished, he sat down and Olenna gestured for a helping hand, then staggered back down the stairs to the safety of cobblestone and a nice soft pillow to rest her rump. She sat next to her granddaughter and patted her lap as if to say there there, little one, the beast who ate your husband will pay soon enough, I've seen to it. Pycelle was next and his word was surprisingly short, a condensed version of his earlier ramblings about magic, monsters, and his unorthodox theories about where trees come from.

Varys took him apart just as swiftly. Turning oak into weirwood was impossible, he insisted. Even if she somehow knew the magic of the Children, it would take years and years to grow a new one from a seed, and it would remain useless until its eyes and mouth bled down the white trunk. He spoke of blood sacrifices, grimacing at the mention of the awful practice, but he pointed out that a notable lack of missing persons meant that even if Sansa were a witch, she could not have found the fuel to cast her spells. _Unless I bled Ser Dontos all over the roots, but it_ _'s best not to give them ideas._

Pycelle huffed and stammered something about the higher mysteries, but Varys rebuffed him with a quote from some Archmaester whose name she didn't recognize about how magic isn't real and someone in his position should know better. When the old man was finished with his incoherent response, the eunuch turned to the crowd and took a deep breath.

"I have one last question for the Grand Maester," he announced, then turned back to Pycelle. "You examined the king's body, did you not?"

"Of course I did," the old pervert said, his jowls quivering with indignation. "I am responsible for the king's well-being, and I had to see if anything could be done, but alas, he was gone to the Father long before I could reach him."

"And the cause of death?" Varys asked.

The entire audience went dead silent, and Sansa could swear they all leaned forward in their seats, as if they might catch the answer slightly faster from the position. Pycelle cleared his throat and muttered something under his breath.

Varys cupped his ear. "What was that?"

"Animal attack," Pycelle said, his face flushed red. _Why is this subject the embarrassing one?_ "Vicious, uh, large animal, tore his throat apart with teeth and claws. Very gruesome. I would rather not describe it further if the High Septon does not demand it."

Before the High Septon in question could respond, Varys cut him off. "That will not be necessary. I have no more questions, if the Grand Maester is finished."

"I believe he has made all the contribution of which he is capable," the High Septon said, and Sansa thought she saw a glint of humor in his eye. "But for now, your judges ask you to hold for just a few moments while we convene ahead of the next line of questioning."

The crowd rumbled again as Pycelle hobbled off to wherever he spent his free time. Sansa turned to Varys and dropped her voice to a whisper. "What was the point of all that? I thought we wanted to dispose of the wolf story."

He tittered. "Just wait until you hear what Lady Margaery has to say."

She started to respond but he warned her off with a low gesture hidden behind the podium. _What else does he have planned?_ Sansa bit back an outburst and closed her eyes until the anger subsided. First Tyrion disappeared on her for days, and now Varys shows up with secrets and promises, paper stacked high and mysteries stacked higher. _Tyrion and the eunuch planned all of this, I am certain._ She wanted to scream at him, damn the consequences, and tell the both of them that her life was at stake and she was not going to stand by as an idle participant while a crippled dwarf and a cockless freak took turns making legal arguments to sycophants.

But losing control in the middle of the trial would be counterproductive, so she seethed silently and, she hoped, without giving away her distress on pale skin. _At least the dirt will hide most of the red._ Anything else could always be blamed on her ordeal, she knew, and people would be focused on the stench before the visuals. For the moment, they were ignoring her completely, gossiping instead about Joffrey and Pycelle while the judges talked amongst themselves. She finally spotted Septa Unella, and though the draft virgin was leaning over to listen to her fellows, she spotted Sansa staring and scowled. _I nearly survived the entire trial without looking at that face._

Finally, the judges broke apart and took up their normal seats, and the High Septon cleared his throat and banged his staff. "We will hear the accused's testimony one more time," he said, "and then the aggrieved will call more witnesses and so on." He looked down to Sansa in her little box and smiled warmly. "Would you like to repeat your story from the script, or from memory?"

 _Fuck it._

Varys started to speak but Sansa stepped forward and kicked him gently in the ankle. "I would be pleased to recite that day from my memory," she said, "because the story is a short one, and bothers me little to tell. Quite the opposite, actually." _Did I just say that?_ Varys squeaked something behind her but she ignored him. _Too late to turn back now._ "I have been a powerless prisoner of the Lannister for years now, and chief among my gaolers was the cruel monster who tried to sit the Iron Throne but always came away with his arms rent and his fine silks spattered with blood. My only regret is that I did not have the chance to kill him before someone else stole that opportunity away from me."

She hoped for an uproar, with the whole crowd on its feet throwing garbage at her and cursing her name, but she only got stunned silence and a few angry shouts from the clueless in the room. Varys tugged at her sleeve, but she ignored him and continued. "Joffrey was the Mad King come again. The Throne rejected him, the people rejected him, his own family rejected him. Good men have ruled in his stead, my husband and his father among them, but the years have ticked by and Joffrey was almost of an age to seize power in his own right. Try as they may to hold him down, the monster would have broken his leash soon enough, and we are all better for the loss.

"His first victim was my direwolf. Her name was Lady, and he killed her, and then he broke a promise when he murdered my father, and when he forced me to look at the severed head he ordered me beaten for his own sick pleasure. Perhaps it was my brother's wolf who killed him, I can't say, or maybe it was one of the Hands that held the leash, fearing the loose dog's bite. I did not kill your king, but I am elated to hear of his death, and even if my body is confined to a damp dungeon my soul flies free amongst the clouds. King Tommen is a kind and thoughtful boy and will grow to be a just and fair ruler, and all of us should be grateful for whoever spared us the torturous reign of Joffrey Baratheon."

Silence.

"Lady Sansa," Varys whispered. "Step down. We have to go."

"I haven't given my evidence yet!" she hissed. "Where's my witness? What are you doing?"

He tugged at her sleeve. "I had the whole mess wrapped up, but you've gone and torn the packaging to shreds. Time for your husband's other plan."

"But I'm-"

"-exposed," he said, "and we need to be in Maegor's Holdfast in minutes, before the battle begins."

Before she could puzzle out his meaning, the air split apart with the sound of warhorns.

It was a short chain of quick bursts, then one long drag that seemed to bounce off the sky forever and obscure the direction of the sound. The crowd leapt from its stupor and gaped in every direction and at one another, probably relieved to hear of anything exciting enough to take their attention off the traitor girl and her scandalous defamation. Many at the fringes of the crowd gathered up their skirts and walking sticks and hobbled away in one direction or another, to investigate the sound, find their families, or just run and hide. Whispers turned to shouts, shouts turned to a dull roar and panic spread through the crowd as everyone seemed to be bouncing off one another without any order or plan to it.

Sansa looked around and realized that all the gold cloaks had already gone, and the Lannister men with them, and anyone else who might swing a sword in defense of the city or be interested in getting a loose mob under control. Her trial had been conducted and attended by a mix of sworn pacifists of the Seven, the elderly, widows, wives, children, and eunuchs, a fact she'd noticed the moment she walked in, but never quite understood.

Varys chittered and grabbed her arm. "You Starks don't do anything by half." He drew her urgently down the stairs from the podium while the crowd erupted in a mass of panic and confusion. _At least someone_ _'s taken the pressure off me._

"I don't understand," she said, as she watched the crowd disperse. "What about the trial, and the warhorn, and-"

"I apologize for not warning you sooner," Varys said, as he tugged her in the direction of the holdfast. "Ser Ilyn is dead, and Stannis Baratheon is here."


	15. Davos III

DAVOS

"He's mine to kill," Lady Brienne spat, hate twisting her freckled face. "Bring him here to face my sword, or is he afraid to fight a woman?"

Ser Jaime leaned over from his horse and kicked her at the knee. "Quiet, woman," he growled, then turned to Davos. "The Gods only know why I let her come along. Please offer your king my sincerest apologies."

Brienne was the largest woman Davos had ever seen. She had to be taller than him, though everyone in the parlay was on a horse and it was difficult to estimate. She was resplendent in armor and eyes as blue as the waters of Tarth, muscled as a man in the parts that were open to the air, and homely as a well-beaten horse. She was also the heir to Lord Selwyn, who'd refused his liege lord's command in the opening days of the War of the Five Kings, and Davos worried that even if her words were more pleasant, the line of the Evenstar might come to an end with the siege of King's Landing.

"The King is busy planning the sack of the city," Davos said to Brienne. "I am here as a courtesy, so as to better arrange pardons for those who seek them. The King is gracious in his mercy, and offers to let you and your fellow traitors take the Black, should you make the wise choice and hand over the prisoner Sansa Stark."

"I'm afraid that isn't possible," the Kingslayer said. He was dressed in the usual white cloak and armor of his position, but he had a strange golden gauntlet over his sword hand and hair cut almost to the scalp. "The Night's Watch doesn't take women, do they?" Brienne scowled at him, but he went on. "Lady Sansa is my brother's wife, and accused of-" he paused, then continued, "-regicide."

Davos had heard the rumors, of course, but nonsense about the Old Gods and women turning into she-wolves was a lot less likely than a footpad with savage streak. "Tomorrow will be a bad day to be a Lannister," Davos said, "and I advise you and your surviving family find yourselves on a boat across the Narrow Sea."

"Your concern makes my heart flutter," Ser Jaime said, placing his left fist over his white armor in the center of his chest. "But we have fond memories of sailors screaming in the green abyss, water ablaze, and a great fleet thrown up against a chain. I wonder how it smelled." Davos grimaced. _Like dead sons._ "I wasn't there, you see," Jaime went on, glancing over at Brienne. "I was busy making oaths."

Warrior women were an oddity on all their own, but Brienne was something else entirely. She'd taken the brunt of the blame for Renly's death, and Davos so desperately wanted her to be the guilty party that he almost let himself forget about Melisandre and a brave man named Courtnay Penrose. Regardless of her lack of a role in that killing, she'd apparently joined up with the Starks, only to defect and run off with their most valuable prisoner in tow. So there she was, a companion and confidant of the notorious Jaime Lannister, and Sansa Stark's newest gaoler.

Davos had brought a dozen men with him to meet the enemy at the gates of King's Landing, but his counterparts on the Lannister side had brought half that number. Nobody was armed, of course, but if Davos were a less honorable man he could have rushed them and thrown Jaime Lannister from the saddle, then trampled his face and rode off at speed ahead of his family's vengeance. _I_ _'m sure the gods would have something to say._ Guest protection under a parlay went much farther than a godly mandate, though. Once an actor with legitimacy strayed from the strict rules, nobody would risk a parlay ever again, and how else was Davos going to intimidate the usurpers into surrendering?

But Ser Jaime had spoken of oaths, and Davos thought him spectacularly uninformed on the subject. "Who, exactly, are those oaths bound to?" Davos asked. "The bastard king, or the Iron Bank, or maybe you would like to debate the nature of justice."

He held up his maimed hand to demonstrate the principle, but they didn't seem to care. _It never has the effect I want._ Instead, Tommen's real father just seethed at him while Brienne looked back and forth between them, confused.

"Ser Jaime's oath is to Robert and Robert's issue," Brienne said. As she spoke, her mouth moved slowly, as if she were chewing cud.

"I said _quiet_ ," the Kingslayer muttered, shooting her a glare. He looked back up at Davos. "King Tommen has not yet reached the age of majority," he managed through clenched teeth, "but my oaths are to him, yes. He has named me Warden of the East, while my brother Tyrion rules the realm as Hand. We protect his domain against thieves, rebels, traitorous uncles, all those sorts." He grinned, baring teeth whiter than his armor. "Oh, and smugglers, too. The ropesellers love me."

Davos set his jaw. "Your king is a false one. You know it better than anyone."

"Your king is a demon-worshipping kinslayer," Jaime said, still grinning. "And my witness here knows _that_ better than anyone."

 _Oh, great._ Still, it might be better to probe for a lie. "Your witness is widely known to be Renly's true killer, and I can only wonder what nonsense she's filled your head with to win _your_ friendship. And now she's turned her cloak on Sansa Stark."

Brienne's eyes went wide and her jaw dropped. _Not an attractive pose._ She almost spoke, but Ser Jaime cut her off with a stiff arm across the chest. "Careful, now. He's baiting you."

She narrowed her eyes and actually _growled_ at him. _Not sure what that means, but it_ _'ll be useful eventually._ "Regardless of who turned whose cloak," Davos, said, "I would remind you one more time of the King's offer. If you have nothing useful to say, then I fear this utter waste of time must come to a close. We have preparations to make in the matter of scaling your walls."

"Hard work for a man short on fingers to grip a rope," Ser Jaime said. "A lesson I've learned myself."

 _Lannisters are such odd people._ "Very well," Davos said. "May the gods grant you swift justice at your trial."

Davos did glance up at the battlements for one nervous second, but the Kingslayer kept his word and no arrows flew down to greet him. Ser Jaime just nodded, tugged on the reins of his horse, and then did the same for Lady Brienne's. She spared him a last scowl before the two knights and their retinue were off for the city. Davos gestured for his Stag-bearing men to turn around and follow him back to the king's camp. _What was that woman all about?_ Jumping from master to master, but lacking the wit of a treacherous ox. She was heir to a doomed family and too busy playing the man's role to marry and continue her line. The whole of the Seven Kingdoms knew her to be a maid, but judging from her choice of companion, Davos doubted that was still true.

 _I have more pressing matters._ Davos shook off that line of thinking and looked ahead to the great line of swords and spears dotting the hills outside King's Landing. Stag banners flew overhead, and though it had not been long ago that they'd displayed the burning heart of heathens, the king's sigil had been restored to the true crowned stag of Baratheon. Beneath those devices of the righteous king were the many flags of the Stormlands, a sea of symbols showing those who had come to support their liege, including the hanged man of Gallowsgrey. _I_ _'ve got to ask Lord Trant what changed his heart, when I get the chance._

He rode up the hill towards the thickest mass of spears surrounding the greatest and tallest stag banner of all. "Well?" The king called down by way of greeting.

Davos shook his head slowly as he rode up the hill. The king's personal guard stepped aside and revealed a handful of old men and ladies standing behind and around the king, a group made up of his inner circle and those who meant to sit out the battle. _With the other cripples_. Davos recognized the pale face of Ser Herbert Bolling leaning on a crutch, a younger lady holding on to his arm, plus a tall knight with his back turned and too much youth in his hair to be in the right place.

As he entered the camp proper, his king huffed and spun on his heels back towards the horizon, looking over the sea of stag men that dotted the hills and valleys west of King's Landing. Nestled in the lowest point of a dry river basin was a herd of draft animals and a growing pile of timber. The sun hung lazily in the east as noon grew closer, but already the tolerable autumn chill had replaced last night's freezing southron winter, for which Davos was grateful.

Stannis waited a few more moments, then sighed and nodded in resignation. "Who is leading the defense?"

"The Imp," Davos said. "The Lannisters would have us believe that Ser Jaime is the Warden of the East, but if Lord Tyrion is Hand, he'd have taken the mantle for himself. It seems the spies were wrong about him being in prison for the bastard's murder."

Stannis arched an eyebrow. "Tyrion Lannister, free, and wearing the chain of office again? You saw him?"

Davos shook his head. "Saw the Kingslayer. It's his word."

Stannis laughed, and the young knight behind him laughed with him. "My onion lord's gone soft in the head," the king said. "You think they'd let Joffrey's killer walk free, even to mastermind a defense against this?" He swept his arm in the direction of the assembled army. "Not even Jaime Lannister would be so foolish."

 _Why lie, though?_ Davos almost pressed the matter, but bit his tongue and nodded sharply instead. Ser Herbert and his hollow cheeks glared at him as if warning him not to question the king, and a distinguished lady bearing the wheat stalks of Selmy smiled broadly at him. The taller knight and his uncovered head of wild blond hair loomed behind her.

Davos looked to the workers in the big pit, sawing timber and hastily throwing it together into tall towers. "Over the walls, then? Or try the gate like last time?"

"No time for the gate," the King said. "No time to repair it, either, once the city is ours. The Imp did the good work for us before he got himself arrested." Davos saw what distinctly looked like a battering ram under construction in the pit, but before he could answer Stannis cut him off. "Distraction. We want to keep the gate intact, but we also want to draw enough defenders away to gain the wall."

"Mace Tyrell will try to retake the city," the tall knight offered, and Davos recognized the voice of Ser Justin Massey. He turned around, grinning broadly, and pointed towards the walls of King's Landing with a bare hand. "We want to be inside and talking from a position of strength, not pinned between a gate and an army or hiding behind the ruins of defenses we've just destroyed."

 _I know all of that already._ Ser Brynden Tully had made them all sorts of offers on that front, swearing he'd take his half of the Stark and Tully army to slow and distract the Tyrells, which would buy Stannis time to secure his position in the east. The cost for military help was freedom for the North, of course. Davos doubted the Blackfish had any real confidence in a successful negotiation, but he had to at least try, just in case the king's position was so weak that it left him with no better choice.

But it wasn't weak, and anyone who knew Stannis knew he'd laugh off any offer that didn't start with full surrender and end with oaths and hostages. Robb Stark had done the hard work for free, anyway, when he'd killed Tywin Lannister in battle and chase the remnants of his host west to hide under the shadow of Casterly Rock. The most incredible rumors had come from the survivors of that battle and the long pursuit through the hills of the Westerlands, but the king and his men had dismissed them as the excuses of the defeated party.

 _I am once again distracting myself with irrelevant matters._ He forced himself to return to the topic of King's Landing. "Will you attempt one last parlay in person?" Davos said.

"It's below the king's station," Ser Justin piped in, but Davos ignored him.

Stannis shook his head slowly, staring off vacantly into the distance. "I would meet their king to discuss terms of surrender," he said slowly, "but they lack one to meet." He blinked and shook off whatever daydream had taken him, then turned to Davos. "I expected Ser Kevan to be managing the defense of the city, so I sent my own Hand. If I had known it was the Kingslayer acting as regent for his son, I'd have taken a raper out of the stockade instead."

Ser Justin barked out a short burst of laughter and the lady of Selmy touched her stomach and chuckled warmly. Something about the meeting still nagged at Davos, though. "I don't think the Kingslayer was lying this time," he said.

Ser Herbert started to grumble at him but Stannis shut him up with a look. "I didn't make Lord Davos my Hand because I disliked the sound of his voice." He turned to Davos and gestured for him to continue with a slight motion of two fingers.

Davos put the logic together as he spoke. "He had a lady knight with him. Brienne of Tarth, Lord Selwyn's daughter." Recognition filled Ser Justin's eyes, and he coughed and looked away shamefully. _What was that about?_ "It was Cersei who commanded the Imp to be locked up, we knew that, but Tommen wanted him freed, and Ser Jaime has always had a fondness for his little brother."

Some of the knights scoffed but Stannis thought that over. "Go on."

"I didn't sense a professional mind like Ser Kevan at work," he said. "Ser Jaime and Brienne bickered amongst each other, as if nobody was truly in control. You know how the Kingslayer always seems to be playing at life, no matter what he does." Lady Selmy smiled and nodded in agreement. "Ser Kevan would have reigned that in," Davos went on, "so he is not in control of the city, and Cersei would never let her lover cavort around with a woman while she stayed in power. She'd have put on mail and met me herself."

"But the Imp would send his brother and this strange woman to get us to lower our guard," Lady Selmy finished, touching Stannis gently on the arm. "Your grace, they mean to lure us in wearing a false face of weakness and disorder before springing the trap. Tyrion Lannister did it once in the Blackwater Bay and he'll do it again on the walls of King's Landing. You can rest assured of that."

Stannis chewed over the notion and glanced at his other advisors, but if they continued to harbor doubts about Davos's assessment, they didn't take the opportunity to speak up. "You're sure Ser Kevan isn't in the city?" he finally said.

"If he's in the city at all," Davos said, "he's not in power. My guess would be Casterly Rock, or the Free Cities if he's wise, but he would not sit idly by while Jaime Lannister lets the realm fall to his enemies. He may think much like his dead brother in many ways, but he does not share that particular delusion about the Kingslayer's aptitude for rule."

"So either Ser Kevan is faking weakness, or Lord Tyrion is," Stannis said. "I hope it's the former. If we find the Imp in a dungeon, I'd like to get his oath and put him on my small council."

Ser Justin alone laughed at that remark, but he quieted when Stannis gave him a puzzled look. "It's, uh, pun," Ser Justin stammered. "Small council."

Stannis stared at him blankly before turning back to Davos. "It's not a joke. I need a Lord of Casterly Rock, and I'd prefer one who has qualities other than courage and ambition. The Lord Lannister can serve me well as Master of Coin. I've already discussed this with my Hand, and we've agreed it's the best solution."

"As long as that snake Littlefinger is miles from the treasury," Lady Selmy grumbled.

Davos had not actually had that conversation with his king, but Stannis was fond of making decisions on his own and invoking his name for added legitimacy. _Or he needs someone to blame when everything goes wrong._ "If he's free," Davos said, "then what?"

"Then the Imp signs his death warrant," the king proclaimed. "I have made my offer to the city defenders, whomever they may be. Perhaps some lower captains may keep their heads, but he who holds command must not escape justice. If Casterly Rock must pass to a cousin, so be it."

"And the boy?" Davos asked.

Stannis got his meaning quickly enough. "He's an abomination of incest, but he'll make for a compliant enough lord. I know you all think me to be a bone-chewing monster, but I'd rather not execute a child if I can avoid it."

This topic they _had_ discussed. "You'll legitimize him, then?"

He nodded. "Tommen Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, all eight of his years. I'd like to see the Westermen follow that creature into another ill-advised rebellion."

Any outcome where an innocent child dodges the gallows seemed right and proper for Davos, but he'd still prefer exile over legitimization. He'd argued in private that the boy would probably fall down some stairs in his first years, freeing up the Rock so that Ser Kevan or a more distant cousin could stir up all kinds of trouble. Perhaps the Lannister aspirations for the Iron Throne were Lord Tywin's alone, but perhaps not. It seemed pointless to take the risk when they had a candidate available who was both cunning enough to hold his seat and wise enough to stay in it.

Davos tucked the argument away for later. There was no sense pressing on until the Imp was under their power, and besides, he could have been wrong about his entire assessment. What if Ser Jaime truly did command the city, and Cersei had been laid low by illness or some other circumstance? What if he really thought his brother guilty of killing his son?

"I understand your doubts," the king said. He'd watched Davos's reaction closely and understood that he'd have questions to bring up in their own time. "There's still Ser Kevan and his eldest son, the weak one. What's his name?"

"Lancel," Ser Justin said. "Another one of the Queen's concubines."

"Right," the king said, nodding sharply. "Ser Kevan is guilty of something, I'm sure, so Lancel will make for a suitable puppet. I could throw a basket of golden heads at his feet and ask him to kindly do as he's told. But we will storm that particular castle once we've reached it." He pointed down to the ongoing siege tower construction. "We have a wall to climb, Lord Davos, and I want you by my side. Let the daring young men take all the risk."

Ser Justin grinned broadly. The king brought together the rest of his commanders to make assignments, a job for which Davos found himself wholly unsuited. _If I could sail a ship under the walls, I would be more useful here._ Besides his sworn men, Stannis consulted sellsword captains from across the Narrow Sea, all of whom naturally suggested that their own men take up the positions of glory, such as "reserves" and "looting the city after the fighting's over." One ancient veteran claimed repeatedly to have been at the Stepstones when the last Blackfyre pretender died, but when Lady Selmy pointed out that her brother had slain Maelys the Monstrous himself, he balked and muttered something about old mistakes and kept his mouth shut for the rest of the meeting.

The king's laborers dragged the siege towers upright, then set them on broad platforms supported by great stone wheels. He presented his coming attack to the enemy by ordering teams of repurposed cavalry horses to pull the structures up to the top of the hill where, from the defenders' perspective, the late afternoon sun would draw an imposing silhouette around their tall wooden frames. Behind the towers came catapults, the simple torsion-fired kind meant to rain debris over the walls with little power and less accuracy. Had he been willing to breach the walls to gain entry, Stannis might have instead brought in or built a battery of trebuchets, the gigantic gravity-powered monstrosities that could fling missiles horizontally at incredible speeds.

More complicated designs meant more time, though, and Davos wasn't even sure whether he could quarry the enormous stone counterweights that the design depended upon to function. All a catapult needed was a basket, ropes, timber, and something deadly to throw. The weapon of choice was simple flaming pitch enclosed in wooden barrels, which would soar over the walls to splatter in the streets and force the city watch to spend precious manpower keeping the fires under control.

Stannis's siege engineers were mostly foreign-born mercenaries, but Davos spotted a few workers who looked like Andals given a crash course on the intricacies of catapult design. The effort ate up the last remaining daylight and left Davos fidgeting on his horse. _I should have demanded a bigger role._ Some R'hllor converts still remained with the army despite Melisande's desertion, and then king answered them with a silent nod when they asked permission to set the nightfires across the ring of hills, thankfully out of bowshot to the defenders on the wall.

When the sun disappeared behind the western horizon, Stannis called for warhorns, and the assault began.

 _May the warrior grant us all strength._ Davos sat on his horse and frowned, watching the shieldwall advance. Ten long turtles made of wood and water-soaked hides concealed battering rams and teams of oxen, who were in turn tied to the siege towers rolling along behind. Inside each tower was two platforms stacked on one another and filled with more men, the lighter-armed sort would who be expected to leap upon the wall and try the gate. The men were oddly silent on the march, so much so that Davos could make out the _thrum_ of bows from the walls as the great arc of missiles soared over the grounds and into the wall of shields and timber.

"Either they are conserving arrows," Stannis said, "or they are short on men to loose them. Look at the cloud."

Davos squinted at the arrow volley and realized it was indeed scattered and thin compared to what he'd expected. "Maybe more are hidden by the night, your grace."

"Unlikely. We have a hundred little suns of our own chasing away the darkness." He indicated to bonfires all along the wall, plus the ring of colossal nightfires on every hill for miles around.

"As you say, your grace."

"I know you wanted to lead an attack of your own," the king said, "but I've already asked that of you once, and I almost lost you. I didn't give you that chain for your sword arm, my lord of onions."

 _Why, then?_ Davos grunted. "As you say, your grace," he repeated.

The hills were dotted with hordes of men, some moving and some sitting back in the reserves. An extra detachment of light calvary sat at the bottom of the hill behind their position, a skirmish team meant to respond quickly to sallies and defend the officers' position against any surprise attack. The killing hadn't started yet, but already Davos was nervous about the dozens of ways he could imagine an assault going wrong. King's Landing was no Storm's End, but it was no hillfort of the First Men either, and if Tyrion Lanniser manned the defenses again, then the Baratheon cause was risking a second loss.

Stannis would not recover from it, either. The first time was bad enough, but eventually a man must acknowledge the patterns in life. _Third time_ _'s a charm, right?_ Davos shifted uncomfortably in the saddle and fiddled with his golden chain, watching the endless march went on in front of him. Gold and silks were his life now, the old days of sailcloth, steel, and luck long taken away from him by fate. _And the whims of the gods._

"Do you think Tyrion Lannister prays to the warrior?" Davos said suddenly.

Stannis snorted. "The Kingslayer does, but the gods despite oathbreakers. I'd imagine Lord Tyrion would favor the Smith. Or is there a god of whoring somewhere? The Summer Isles, perhaps?"

"I have no idea, your grace."

"And they call _me_ humorless." Stannis gestured vaguely towards King's Landing. "You've gotten me convinced that the Imp will have some grand trick ready on the other side. Perhaps he will fill a wooden horse full of wildfire this time and send it galloping through the broken gates."

"Or maybe he's just pulled together a larger force than he's let on," Davos offered.

The king shrugged. "I bet he'll ask his wife to turn into a wolf. She'll tear both our throats out while my useless guards watch on in horror."

The battering rams passed between the twisting hulks of burned-out buildings that sat outside the walls. "The Imp burned the hovels outside the Mud Gate," Davos said, thinking back to the Blackwater. "He's done the same now."

"Anybody could have done that," the king said, suddenly serious. "Ser Kevan, even Ser Jaime could generate that tactic on his own."

Davos didn't have an answer for that, so he watched in silence as the siege towers passed the torched village and started up the last hill after their oxen teams. _Now, we are committed._ Turning around on that incline would be nearly impossible and the men could, at best, break and flee and abandon all the draft animals and siege equipment to be razed or seized by the enemy. Behind the towers, light danced across the sea of spearpoints and helmets that made up the infantry's main body.

Suddenly, patterned horns sounded in the distance.

"A sally," Stannis said, tugging on his reins and turning towards the north. "Good news for us." He rode off at a moderate trot and his standard bearer followed. Davos joined them and saw the skirmishers to his left shift and keep pace. The whole procession joined together as Stannis rode down the slope to where the hills dipped into a shallow valley. Three riders bearing the stag banner appeared around the hills amongst a small cluster of trees, all galloping frantically in their direction and shouting something too quiet to hear for all the distance.

When the two sides met a rider leapt from the saddle and threw himself to one knee. Cavalry surrounded him and blocked him off from the king, but Stannis waved them away and Davos hurried to catch up before he missed the news.

"-the Old Gate, hundreds, riding in near-darkness and we couldn't count," the young man said breathlessly.

Stannis barked orders and individual riders ran off to deliver them. Davos took a quick count and saw they had maybe two hundred men close by, but the reserves were already breaking off to join them and form flanks facing the north. Stannis turned back to Davos and pointed towards the walls.

"Did you hear any of that?"

"Sally from the Old Gate," Davos repeated. "It's too early for the Imp to order a counter-attack."

Stannis nodded. "Aye, so they're disorganized or desperate. We'll crush them here and chase them right back through the open gate."

"Could be a trap."

The king thought it over for a moment. "Worth the risk, Lord Davos. We could gain the walls in three places at once. If we don't at least try the gate, the survivors will just rejoin the garrison."

The Baratheon reserves finally reached them in an uncoordinated mass. Stannis watched them as they marched by, filtering around their guards and stepping into the darkness. Stannis sent more riders ahead to try and find someone to fight, and from the sounds of horns less than a minute later, enemy contact was nearly at hand. A dozen Baratheon knights rode back and forth in front of the horde of undisciplined men, shouting and cursing until the soldiers remembered their training and shifted into a proper line, shoulder-to-shoulder and with shields overlapping. More shouting drew Davos's attention, this one a rising high-pitched chorus far in the distance, and he turned back to the city as the first siege towers hit the walls and the battering rams struck two gates simultaneously.

 _Both armies are both divided._ More reserves could shift south, join the attack on the walls or reinforce Stannis against the counter-attack, but Davos worried that they would run out of men. The Tyrell forces were still days away and marching as slow as ever, but Davos still felt exposed and vulnerable with armies too inflexible and undisciplined to respond to a real attack.

"Men of Westeros!" Stannis shouted. "The usurpers are upon us!"

And they were.

The wall of attackers spilled out of the darkness at a charge, broken lines of screaming men ramming into the shoddy shield wall just as it braced for impact. Torchlight showed parts of the stag wall buckling and shifting back, but the far ends of the line were plunged in darkness and impossible for Davos to see. He squinted at the distance and struggled to see where the enemy ended and the night began, but before he could put together a clear picture, dawn came.

It was Lightbringer. It could _only_ be Lightbringer. Stannis held his sword aloft and the light washed across the sea of heads, the great lion banner and the startled faces of the snarling enemy, back across the sea of heads and down to the valley below. Stannis was a lighthouse on the shore, a single great star come down to the earth, and Davos had to hide behind his maimed hand to filter the glare.

They broke. The sad little battle was already over, as the sudden shock of Melisandre's last gift sent the lines reeling and snapping, covering their faces with the hands that were supposed to be swinging swords. The distraction brought on a sudden and terrible surge from the stag men, and before anyone could call out orders for discipline, lions were running in a great panicked horde. Stannis ordered the pursuit and his riders swept around the side in a full gallop, the king leading the charge straight into the flank of the fleeing men. Spears and axes flashed in the night, blades tore into flesh and steel, and men fell over each other and stumbled away in any direction that remained available. Some fled Lightbringer and dove straight into the charging Baratheon infantry, then vanished under the great tide of boots and hooves. More still ran for the wall, reaching for the Gate of the Gods on the northwest corner and beating on the wood and steel to no avail.

 _The gate isn_ _'t lifting._ Davos glanced up to the defenders on the wall but they were missing, perhaps having abandoned their post or repositioned to the south where the assault still raged, but if anyone still manned the gatehouse, they weren't showing any sign. Some of Stannis's infantry broke off without orders and ran at the haggard survivors, who put their backs to the wall and formed a shoddy defense that collapsed almost immediately into chaos and slaughter.

Davos turned his attention away from the Gate of the Gods and rode after the king. Stannis and his skirmishers were well ahead now, having rounded the northwest corner of the city and riding east to complete the pursuit. They would stop to rotate, surround, and destroy anyone still running, then regroup and attach themselves to the reserve infantry at the Gate. Davos and his minders rode over dozens of bodies draped in crimson-stained gold cloaks, but dozens quickly turned into a hundred and more, so many he couldn't even count. _They_ _'ve wasted the City Watch._ Davos looked all about for Lannister red, but aside from the lion banner lying trampled and torn in the mud, the only red he saw was blood.

He checked over his shoulders to make sure his guards were keeping up. He counted four, all wearing the stag and tailing him loyally, but he saw no sign of Lady Selmy or the other lords and ladies who had taken position among the officers. _They will be safe in the staging area._ Doubt nagged Davos as he crossed more and more bodies, many of them writhing wounded instead of dead. He turned his horse up a slight incline to a shallow hilltop where he might get a better view of the battle, and when he reached his vantage point he saw fighting on the walls, fighting on the ground, fighting in the hills, runners and riders and marchers in every direction until he lost all sense of the careful choreography that the king and his advisors had constructed.

His little hill gave him a view of the Old Gate, too, but at a sharp angle where he could only just barely see the gate. _They aren_ _'t raising that one, either._ Stannis's horsemen slowed and let a large group of runners continue on, maybe a hundred by Davos's best guess, but they reached the gate just like the other group and pounded on it in futile terror. The stag infantry advanced closer and closer to the gate, and as minute after minute went on, Davos understood the city had abandoned its own Watch to die or surrender outside.

 _Something is wrong_. Tyrion Lannister would not throw those men away so uselessly, nor would the ever-cautious Ser Kevan, unless their plans were more cynical than Davos would have guessed. Were they forcing him to deplete the armed force that would be fighting under his own banner by sunrise? Perhaps they expected the city to fall, and hoped to sabotage Stannis's rule. _Is the Imp the monster they say he is?_ Davos had never met the creature, but the king always spoke fondly, as if a reasonable little fellow hid behind the debauchery, and he couldn't imagine someone like that wasting lives or making such a grievous tactical error.

Whatever the cause, the Old Gate remained as stubbornly shut as the Gate of the Gods, so Stannis gave up on waiting and ordered his riders to charge. They spurred up the short incline and into the mass of terrified men, but Davos did not stay to watch. _If there is a trap, it will be sprung far from here._ He spun his horse around and broke into a gallop, down the hill parallel to the wall and heading back towards the staging area and the main assault. Several siege towers were aflame, great spirals of fire and smoke flooding the sky, almost as bright as Lightbringer itself. Men still fought on the walls but the ram at the Lion Gate lay broken and abandoned, surrounded by debris and only a handful of bodies. As Davos and his guards covered the distance, he saw that the attack on the King's Gate was similarly abandoned.

Horns sounded a withdrawal. Baratheon men poured off the walls, either by running to the remaining siege towers or just leaping straight down to the earth below. The towers themselves did not budge, but men emerged from the little doors set at ground level and started a slow, ordered retreat down the hill to meet the reserves. Lightbringer still shone in the distance, but the city and the hillside obscured the king and his skirmishers, so Davos could only assume that gate still held as well.

Four gates, no breaches. The last Baratheon fighter dove off the walls and someone helped him stagger back down the hillside. No burning oil or arrows followed, and though the battlements hid the fighting platform where most of the slaughter took place, Davos guessed from the lack of pursuit that they were littered with bodies and destruction. He turned away from that defeat and rode onward to the sea of tents on the highest hill, the staging area where Stannis's council and their guards waited for the next stage of the battle.

Doubt gnawed at him more and more by the minute. He passed the last of the nightfires, rode down a short incline and then up the slope where a wall of Stag men challenged him. Torchlight revealed his face and golden chain, and they parted with downturned eyes and soft apologies. _There must be some trick, some shoe about to drop._ But the camp seemed relaxed, a smattering of highborn folk who watched the infantry assemble at the base of the hill.

He left his tired horse with a startled squire and jogged to the command tent. He found Lady Selmy and some of the other knights and lords standing around the table and talking amongst themselves in hushed tones. Messengers popped in and out of the tent, taking orders and returning with them. Lady Selmy saw him first and waved off someone who was pestering her about the shoddy state of the reserves.

"Lord Hand," she greeted him, smiling broadly and with a wild look in her eye. Her face and neck were flushed red with a mix of nervous excitement and worry. _I probably look like I_ _'ve been standing under the summer sun for days._

"My lady, I- the king assaults the north gates," he stammered. "How goes the-"

"Fine," she said, waving a hand towards the pillars of fire at the main gates. "Repelled in the first attack, but we're going to start raining hell on them now and try again. The king is well?"

 _He better be._ "The king has shattered the sally with losses minimal for our side, devastating for theirs. The gates remain closed."

She shrugged. "Ah, well, it was worth trying. When you see the king next, tell him his vanguard fights bravely. Our losses here are minimal, too."

Davos thought back to the fallen rams, burning towers, and men escaping in no particular hurry. "You managed an ordered retreat?"

She nodded. "Easy enough. We kept the rabble out of the battle. Ser Justin gave the enemy a fine bloody nose, though, and now we're putting the catapults straight on the battlements instead of aiming for the city." Lady Selmy grinned wickedly. "They'll be too busy pulling their wounded back to respond. We have every advantage."

 _Too easy._ Davos looked at the faces of the other lords and saw only the joy of victory written on their bright eyes and white-toothed grins. "Am I the only one here worried?"

"I told you the Kingslayer was managing the defense," Ser Herbert shouted from the back of the room. He sat on a bench and leaned on his crutch, evidently exhausted from the night's effort of looking at maps and writing letters. "Our spies had the right of it!"

"You can boast about your seer's tongue later," Lady Selmy snapped. "Wait until you're kneeling in front of the Iron Throne to tell the king how right you were."

"Here here!" someone shouted, and moments later it was a chorus.

Davos bowed and backed away from the command tent. His men were still with him, but their faces had gone from grim and determined to just as joyful as the highborn lot inside. His own frown didn't seem to dissuade them. They followed him to the edge of the camp, where he stood behind a wall of spears jutting out over the hillside and joined the gawkers in admiring the maneuvers of Ser Justin's elite infantry.

The battle's progress only proved his inexperience, and maybe he should have just listened to the soldiers and stayed out of the way after all. _I am good at running ships and speaking my mind, and even at the latter I am hardly above mediocre._ Nobody seemed to mind abandoning the siege towers and ram to burn, and the soldiers had retreated in so orderly a fashion that they would be ready for another assault in minutes. When Davos compared that to the disaster with the City Watch, Davos finally understood the difference between professional soldiers and armed peasants. _They fight, die, withdraw, and fight again._

Ever since the king in his wisdom had elevated Davos to a position of honor, he'd felt more crippled by his missing education than he did by his stubby fingers. He was barely literate, let alone trained in the art of war, and he hadn't fought a single land battle in his entire life. _You are surrounded by ambitious men of better blood. Why did you choose me?_

As he watched the men below him regrouping, horns sounded again.

A pair of riders came galloping out of the darkness, each shouting and waving stag banners at the camp guards. Davos ran to catch them halfway, but the leader slid from his horse and brushed past him at a sprint. The second rider stopped and stared bug-eyed at the chain around Davos's neck.

"M'lord," he said, tottering and falling to one knee.

Davos grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him up to his feet. "Whose call was that? What's going on?"

He had clean cheeks and the lithe frame of an early teenager, and his face was flushed with exertion. "Lord Hand, I-" he sputtered between breaths. "The river," he said, "the Blackwater Rush. So many rafts and they're all full of men. They'll be here in minutes!"

Davos's heart skipped a beat. "Banner?"

The messenger's face twisted with fear. "The roaring lion."


	16. Sansa IV

SANSA

"I'd hoped to get the trial finished before the battle," Varys said, sighing. "Fate was not with me today. But you are quite the lucky girl, my elegant friend, that Stannis reached our walls before the axe could drop. Five minutes was all I needed. Five minutes without you condemning yourself to a basket."

Candlelight flickered off of Varys's robe and hood, casting shadows on the moss-covered walls of the passage under the Red Keep. Sansa stumbled along behind him, not daring to let the eunuch get more than five feet ahead, lest he turn a corner with his tiny flame in hand and disappear forever. He had waited until they were safely tucked away from prying eyes before beginning his lecture, and after only a couple of minutes of complaining and groping along in the dark, he stopped suddenly and lifted his candle up to reveal a tall ladder.

"Your husband's new quarters," he said, stepping aside and holding the candle out to her.

Sansa resisted the urge to snatch the candle out of his hands and run away as fast as she could. Abandoning Varys in the pitch black made little sense when _she_ was the tourist here, so she instead planted her feet and balled her fists. "Why? What are you doing here, why are you doing it? _Why?_ "

The eunuch sighed and placed the back of his free hand against his forehead with the practiced exaggeration of a mummer playing for a crowd. "So many questions, this one has. However do I find the patience?"

"Just _tell_ me," Sansa shouted, her voice echoing off the walls. "Why in Seven Hells should I do anything you say? How could I ever trust you? Tywin Lannister's had his hand up your ass for fifty years, and I bet you enjoyed every minute of it."

Not only was Varys unfazed by her insult, he actually _giggled_. "I prefer metaphors about strings, little one. Not so unseemly."

As much as Sansa wanted to scream at him, his goofy smile and soft voice were so disarming that her wolf's blood cooled and she let her posture relax. Whatever schemes Varys had in motion, he _had_ provided an able defense. Between his help and the truth, she might have had a chance at slipping her bonds through legal means, she had probably thrown that away. _I did enjoy telling that crowd of useless socialites the truth about their king._

"Tell me this," she said, lowering her voice to barely over a whisper. "Did Tyrion really send you?"

Varys smiled and nodded.

"And is he really working to free me? What has he been doing since he was freed?"

He opened his mouth to answer, then his face twisted in confusion. "You don't know? Lord Tyrion has been working tirelessly, day and night, organizing the defense of the city and gathering his allies in the west. Ever since Ser Kevan abandoned us, your husband has been our sole vanguard against the usurper and his gathering army." He yawned as if the talk bored him. "He has been arranging marriages, buying armies, and flying doves to your brother at Riverrun. The war will end soon enough, I promise you, but we must hold a little while longer."

Sansa's jaw dropped. She clutched her belly as guilt snaked through her bowels, a winding fire that made her whole middle shudder. "Flying doves? Varys, please, I've heard absolutely nothing from the prison. Nothing at all."

"I thought I already took care of that," he grumbled, frowning. "What happened when Tyrion visited you in your cell? Did the Queen interrupt you?"

The truth came out, then. The Kingsguard and a faction of Lannister men had planted themselves outside Sansa's personal little cell block, a move to keep Tyrion or anyone else from slipping her a message. Worst of all, they had Tommen's backing. Cersei wanted to starve Sansa of information before the trial, and Varys guessed that she planned to distract Tyrion when it came time for final judgment. _I was never abandoned. I was isolated._ But when Tyrion had finally found a way to reach her cell, she had rebuked him, denied him the chance to speak, and cursed and spat until he had waddled off slumped and defeated.

"But he's the Hand," she whined, tears forming in her eyes. "I don't understand."

"He walks a long rope over a great chasm, your husband, and he does not have the right constitution for such labors. Challenging the king at this point would only cost us blood we cannot afford to spill. Ser Meryn never did let him through, though your husband stepped over his insensate body on the way in to see you."

"You _drugged_ him?" Sansa shouted.

Varys smiled again, a wicked, toothy smile, then wagged a finger and turned up his nose. "Such scandalous accusations coming from one so young. Whatever happened to childhood innocence? Ser Meryn is known for his deep and dreamy naps, and your husband merely waited until the time was right. The Kingsguard have seen better days."

When Joffrey wanted her beaten, Ser Meryn was always his first choice. Ser Balon had been hesitant and gentle, while Sandor had outright refused and the boy king was too scared of him to ever ask again. Sansa grinned, imagining her tormentor sipping his water and collapsing in a heap minutes later.

"I hope he choked on his own vomit," she said.

Varys gasped in mock outrage. "So violent. But Tyrion went to tell you that he is close to finding terms with the North and the Riverlands. He has been in contact with none other than Lady Catelyn, in fact, though she is at the Twins presently. The two have a bit of a shared history, you see, and when your husband finds time to speak with people, they rarely end the conversation as enemies. If we are lucky your brother will agree to a withdrawal before more precious lives are lost in the West. Ser Daven hides his host behind the walls of Lannisport and I would not like to see the man torn asunder by savage wolves and terrible magic."

Nearly everyone involved in her father's murder was dead. Janos Slynt had been sent to the wall, Tywin Lannister and Joffrey were dead and gone, and even Ser Ilyn had met a grisly end, though he was merely the tool and not the hand who wielded it. According to Varys, the headsman had been found choked to death on the same day Ser Kevan fled the city. _The Queen_ _'s work, once her uncle was out of the way._ Of those who plotted to kill King Robert and betray her father, only Cersei and Jaime Lannister were left alive and free. Tyrion hated one and loved the other, but what about Robb? She imagined herself in his position, weighing options and counting heads. Would she be satisfied with her queendom if Father's killers remained free?

"What are the terms?" she said softly.

The candlelight sputtered and cast Varys's face in dark shadows. "Your family demands the traitors be brought to justice," he said, then shrugged. "Everyone always says that, but who are the traitors again? I've lost track."

"The Lannisters."

"Right. Those that still live, anyway. Oh, and your brother has demanded permanent borders at the edge of the Riverlands." He said it as if it were a minor detail. "In exchange, all the great forces of Westeros will converge on Stannis Baratheon and send him screaming to his red god." The shadow vanished from his face and he giggled again. "Stark and Lannister will be allies, can you believe it? So dramatic a reversal in so short a time. We live in strange days."

Sansa looked up the ladder into the gaping darkness. "This is the Tower of the Hand, then?"

Varys nodded. "And freedom of a sort. You can bathe and dress, then wait in relative luxury for the war to end. The staff care little for our politics, and will wash your clothes and attend to your other needs. When it is time, Tyrion will hand you over to your brother at the walls."

"You want me to sit and wait? For how long?"

"Even if the next raven brings us the good news, you can expect to wait a week or more. Better make it a month, to be certain."

 _A month in a cage, waiting for my release._ She'd spent much longer waiting to die. "And Cersei?"

"Distracted."

"The Faith?"

"Satisfied," he said, waving a hand to brush away the concern. "You have more allies than you realize. The High Septon-"

"Cock cousins, yes, I know," Sansa said, rolling her eyes.

Varys's jaw hung for just a second. "That's a word I never expected to escape your lips. Yes, something like that. I mentioned that your husband tends to collect friends, yes?"

Sansa sighed and gently took the candle from Varys's hands. Wax pooled along the base of the candlestick, and if she didn't start climbing soon, the wick threatened to flicker out. "I still don't understand why you're doing this for me," she said, "but thank you. For the trial, for this, for Ser Meryn, for everything." She reached down and wrapped her free arm around the startled eunuch's back and pulled him in for a quick hug. "Thank you."

When she stepped back, his eyes were wide for just a moment, then settled into dark pools. He rocked back on his feet, then cleared his throat and vanished into the darkness. "Of course," he said, a whisper from the shadows. "A trifle, really. Your father was the last good man to hold power in this place. I tried to save him, I really did, but I made mistakes and underestimated certain players, so I failed him. I won't fail you." He stepped into the light again, and the mask of the indifferent fop had regained its dominion over his face. "Now run along and clean yourself up before your husband gets home. He's had a long day toiling away, and I imagine he would like to return to a well-kept house."

Sansa hiked up her skirts and stepped on the first two rungs of the ladder. She held the candlestick in one hand and climbed with the other, but after a few rungs, she looked back on the silhouette of the eunuch in his black robe and hood.

"Who killed Joffrey?"

The dim light of her candle reflected off his white teeth, a shark's grin that pierced the dark. "The gods punish the kinslayer, child."

* * *

Sansa had expected Shae to be among the handmaidens waiting for her in the Hand's quarters, but the rooms were all empty and the door was locked from the inside. _Like a real home._ The huge space was divided between two offices, three palatial bedrooms, a wide lobby to receive visitors, and three sitting rooms with tall windows overlooking the city and the Blackwater Bay. After taking into account closets and the stairs, she realized that the complex took up an entire floor of the tower, wall-to-wall. _All for one person, or one couple._

Tyrion's chosen room was easy enough to identify. _He is such a slob._ Clothes and wine-stained bedsheets covered the floors and draped the huge wardrobe that dominated the corner of the room. _He couldn_ _'t even throw them inside?_ She turned up her nose and explored the other rooms, all untouched, all filled with ornate, polished oak furniture covered by a fine layer of dust. Tyrion had adapted one of the sitting rooms into his office, and he'd left a disorganized pile of notes, letters, and writs laying about the room and covering the table. A trail of similar destruction led to the privy and back, as if he'd made a habit of working on his feet on the way to drop off his nightly load.

She stood in the receiving room and looked around at the plush velvet sofas and high-backed chair. _Father lived here for a time._ Back then, she'd been given her own room on the lower floors, a more modest chamber that reminded her of Winterfell. Arya was her neighbor on one side and Jeyne on the other, and the rest of the tower had smaller quarters for Jory and his men. She'd never actually come this high or visited her father in his study, though she had at times come to the Small Hall one floor down and hold councils with lordly types from around the Crownlands. _Just as he had up North._

And they were all dead. Her father beheaded for imagined treasons, Jory murdered by the Kingslayer, Jeyne and her father all killed with the rest of the Stark men, a whole household wiped out when the Queen had made her grasp for power. Even Septa Mordane had lived and died in this tower, a pure innocent soul if there ever was one, swept up in the brutality of Cersei's betrayal. But Arya lived! No matter how much sorrow and horror had happened in this dreadful place, Arya had made it out alive somehow, and thanks to the Hound she was safe with their brother after a long journey and what had to be unthinkable trials.

 _Our father_ _'s killers will be brought to justice._ Cersei may not have given the order to kill Lord Eddard, but she had done so for every other friend Sansa knew south of the Neck, and she could not be allowed to escape the headsman simply because Joffrey and Tywin had the good sense to die. Varys's last words had been so cryptic. If Tyrion did turn Cersei over to Robb, would he not be a kinslayer himself?

Her stomach fluttered at the thought. She was asking a lot of him, and she had been so awful with him that she pledged to at least treat him reasonably until the war was over. _He can come home to peace and quiet. He deserves that much._ She found the bath, threw open the shutters and lit the coals, then stripped to her shift and tossed the soiled dress into a heap in the corner. She left the water to heat, gathered up all the clothes and linens in Tyrion's chamber, put the ones that passed the sniff test neatly in the wardrobe and piled the rest in one of the spare rooms. She dare not mess with his office, lest she upset some maniacal filing system that lived exclusively inside his mind, but made sure the rest of the floor was reasonably tidy and ready for him to come home.

When the water was ready she threw her shift aside and stepped in, letting the heat wash over her body and squeeze the soreness out of her muscles. She hadn't had a real bath since the day of the wedding. She'd been cleaned before her hearing, that much was true, but instead of being left alone to sit and soak, she'd been manhandled by a team of involuntarily celibate women with workman's hands.

Sit and soak, and wait for the war to be over. That was her purpose in life now. At least her mother would allow her to choose her real husband, but until that moment she was nothing but a pretty doll, a commodity waiting to be plucked from the shelf while everyone else settled their differences in steel. In the meantime, she'd have to lounge about in idle luxury, locked in a safe little box and sleeping in a city under quarantine. Just outside the walls, thousands of men gathered to fight and die, her husband perhaps one of them, and the hordes of smallfolk in the city faced the starvation of the long siege and the spread of diseases common among cloistered populations. All the Seven Kingdoms hung in the balance while she waited and relaxed.

Sansa thought about all of that while the water warmed her bones and cleansed her soul of dungeon filth. The water turned darker and darker until the surface was covered by a brown film. She sighed and stepped out of the bath, looking down into the muck. _Now I need someone to change the water._ A breeze slid through the open window and touched her bare skin, sending a chill through her body down to her feet on the cold tile. _Winter is coming._

She stepped over to the window and reached for the shutters, pausing for a moment to look out over the city. The Tower of the Hand shot over the walls of the Red Keep, which was itself perched on the highest of the three hills. She could see all the way across the sea of tenements, shops, cobblestone streets, and crowds of smallfolk small as ants, though it was all mostly silhouettes in the dying evening light. Tyrion was out there, somewhere, probably working on the wall with the city watch or urgently writing letters of peace for the other side. The walls obscured the valley below, but she could still make out a throng of activity on the battlements, with what looked like hundreds of glittering spearpoints and lumps of gold and red running back and forth. Could her husband keep the stags at bay long enough for the wolves to come? Sansa hoped the battle would wait long enough at least for him to come home. If he was negotiating with the North, she should have some sort of a say, or the opportunity to write her brother and reassure him that Tyrion was not mistreating her. She owed the little man _something_ for what she'd said.

When the wind picked up, she was reminded why she was standing at the window in the first place. She shivered, then reached for the shutters again and pulled. Just before she locked the latch in place, a cry rose up in the distance, a chorus of shouts and screams that sounded vaguely like an alarm. She watched through the crack in the shutters as a distant fire appeared over the edge of the wall, a tiny ball of flame not much bigger than the man-sized blotches on the battlements. The fireball cleared the wall, then another, then another, and more still flew through the air and crashed into the street. Warhorn blasts pierced the air around her, men scurried about to deal with the threat and quench the fires before they could reach the substantially flammable neighborhoods near the gates. _It_ _'s already begun._

Sansa heaved the shutters closed and dropped the bar to lock them in place, then scrambled around the Hand's quarters for clean clothes. Nothing in her size had been brought up but she did find fancy dresses cut for a woman much shorter. _Shae_ _'s, probably._ Eventually she found a shift that fit well enough and a tall, plain gown buried in the back of a closet. It was too wide at the waist and looked like a servant's spare, or maybe something meant for Lysa Arryn or another past hand's wife. She slipped it over her head and buckled a belt at the waist, then did a passable job of combing the tangles out of her wet hair and cleaning up after herself in the bath. She was just working out how to get rid of the dirty water when the cries started up again, louder and closer, and the warhorns blew urgently from all over the city and the Red Keep itself.

 _What do I do?_ She felt utterly useless, a wolf pup yipping in a cage while her master fought for his life. Not that she would have done much good running free. She thought of her lost sister and her dancing master, of how bravely she'd fought when Joffrey and Cersei killed Lady, and wished she could pull up the same courage with the enemy at the gates. _What would Arya do, right now?_ She would probably find a sword, put on a pair of trousers, throw a gold cloak over her shoulders, and join the men and squires on the wall. Actually, she already knew what Arya would do, because she'd done it. Arya would escape the city and run to Robb on her own, rather than wait to be sold like a well-bred horse.

Excitement bubbled up in her stomach and lit a fire in her chest. _I could do it. I really could._ A mad impulse seized her, but she pulled back before running out the door. Yes, she could take some of Tyrion's money and buy a cabin on a ship to Seagard or White Harbor, but think of everything that could go wrong? Even in her plain servant's dress she would likely be spotted by one of Cersei's hangers-on, and her campaign would be over before she could even get outside the Red Keep. Would Stannis blockade the bay? He might, if he were planning a long siege, but Varys gave the impression that with all the armies converging on him, Stannis had to take the walls immediately or his war was finished. A merchanter could get her out and into friendly seas, and she was very flexible about what could be considered friendly. Even Eastwatch-by-the-Sea would be a safe place. Jon Snow would protect her, or Lord Umber, or anyone else in the North.

She poked around in Tyrion's makeshift office until she came up with a small purse that jingled with silver stars. _Am I really doing this?_ He wouldn't miss the money, but he might miss her. She tucked the purse securely into a pocket in the dress underneath the belt, a tight enough fit that the coins didn't move around and attract attention to themselves when she walked. She wrapped her hair into a sloppy braid and tied it off with a strip of linen that made it look like a peasant's ribbon. _I shouldn_ _'t attract attention like this._ If she looked destitute, somebody would question her about the source of the money, but a wealthy woman traveling alone would draw every eye in the city. _I am a maiden of low status, voyaging abroad._

Sansa filled one of Tyrion's less gaudy suitcases with a pile of rags to complete the disguise. She bounded out the door and down the spiral stairs floor after floor until she was at ground level, then froze in front of the main door. It would be tough to turn back, once that door opened. What if one of Cersei's swords spotted her? Were they searching for her now? Why didn't she ask Varys to elaborate when he said she was distracted? Her aborted trial took place in the courtyard immediately outside the tower, and when she placed her ear against she door she couldn't hear any commotion or other sign of crowds gathered outside. _Why didn_ _'t I check all of the windows first?_ Her heart pounded in her ears with anticipation and excitement and she touched the lock softly with her bare hand.

She lifted the lock, turned the latch and pulled the door open.

Nobody was waiting outside. _Thank the gods._ Darkness had fallen over the courtyard, and if there were any sun left at all in the west, it was low enough to be obscured by the walls at ground level. She stepped outside and looked around to see only a handful of locals shuffling about, all smallfolk who worked the grounds, and none pointing steel in her face. The sky was black over her head, and except for wisps of smoke trailing by, she could see or hear no evidence of the battle being fought at the walls. All sieges were like this, she knew, a long boring drag with the occasional burst of activity, with one side usually waiting for the other to get lazy and undisciplined before they struck. But this one would not last, and she had to get out of the city quickly before the rest of Westeros forced Stannis's hand.

So she took a deep breath and took off for the west gate out into the city. She wanted to sprint, but instead she kept a modest pace with the suitcase tucked under her arm and looked straight head. Her long tail of hair flapped against her back thanks to the cool breeze, and she rounded the tower and passed a set of empty stables before stepping down a wide flight of stairs and across an unmanned drawbridge into the outer yard. The Godswood lay to her left and escape to her right, so she chose to go to her right and through the open portcullis. Moments later, she was out of the walls of the Red Keep and standing on Aegon's High Hill.

She froze for a second on that hill, uncertain. Where were the guards? Was _everyone_ assigned to the defense of the city? No Lannister men nor City Watch officers were keeping an eye on the bridge, and with the gate wide open, a mob could have come running in the castle and nobody could have stopped them from putting her prison to the torch. Tommen would probably be safe in Maegor's Holdfast, but Sansa and anyone else outside would have been doomed. She could see the city walls in the distance again, though the blotches of motion on the battlements weren't as easy to follow without the sun or the vantage point of the Tower. _I have to keep moving._ The harbor waited for her down the hill and through a wide, safe avenue and past the Mud Gate, but she knew her luck would run out eventually. _If the road is not clear, I must be very careful._

Suddenly, she heard commotion coming from inside the keep. First came the shifting of metal and the clamber of boots on stone, and then a woman's voice issuing sharp commands. Sansa slipped away from the gate and pressed her back against the wall, looking out into the city as a small procession of torch-bearing armored men simultaneously appeared down the Shadowblack Lane, far in the distance and heading towards to the keep and the commotion. The sounds inside grew closer, if she didn't find a place to hide, Sansa was about to be trapped between two groups of soldiers, out in the open with no excuses.

 _I could run down the hill and cut south. If they don_ _'t seem my face, I might make it._ But before she could gather the courage to run for the harbor, she squinted at the vertical spears and spotted a much shorter man leading them from the front.

 _Tyrion._ The man was small enough to be Tommen, but his gait was unmistakable from any distance. _Is he coming for me?_ She hadn't been in the tower for longer than a few hours, and the battle was still yet to begin in earnest. Perhaps he wanted to make sure that Varys had gotten her out of the trial in time, or he might have only gone to find guards to keep the Tower of the Hand safe from Cersei's minions. _I should have waited. What was I thinking?_ She almost darted back into the castle, but before she could round the corner she heard a shrill voice call up from the outer yard.

"No- take the chains off, but just hold on to her by the wrists. I don't care if she bites." Sansa heard a _clank_ of metal. "Yes, there, and walk her up the stairs. Quickly, now, I want her to be the first thing he sees."

It was Cersei.

Some male voices mumbled assent, and wood groaned under the stress of heavy boots. Another woman's voice shouted urgently and incoherently, half a desperate cry and half a terrified scream, but a _whack_ of metal on flesh ended that. After a few seconds of silence, the woman's voice started up again, this time an agonizing groan.

Tyrion was coming. Sansa wasn't sure whether to run to him or to stay hidden, but standing out in the open was the worst of all options. Luckily the top of the hill was lined with thick, decorative bushes, big enough to hide a person and aided by the night's shroud. She ducked low and peered through the thicket to see her little husband waddle up the steps at the best pace his legs could manage, while a half dozen armed and armored men followed him. She recognized Bronn but the rest were strangers, and so focused were they on the mission that every last man passed her without offering the bushes a second glance.

"You thought I wouldn't find out?" Cersei said, venom in her voice. The last of the men crossed under the portcullis and Sansa scrambled over to the gate. "Did you forget what father said, what would happen if he found you abed with another whore? Now _I_ am the Lion of Lannister, and his commands continue through me. One of your whores may have escaped, but this one is mine."

A woman screamed. Sansa reached the gate and peered around the corner. Tyrion's men slid swords from sheaths, but Cersei had at least twice as many soldiers with her, all red cloaks and all standing on a high platform that had been turned into a makeshift gallows. A rope hung from a piece of timber jutting from one of the outer buildings, and in its noose was none other than Shae.

" _No!_ _"_ Tyrion cried. She couldn't see him but for the sea of legs and steel, but Tyrion's agonized cry rose out over Cersei's laugh and the shouts of men to get back and put their swords away. Tyrion's men looked at each other nervously but nobody moved from either side. "Let her go, Cersei, please," he pleaded. "Please, she has nothing to do with any of this, she's not anybody to you. Just a handmaiden. "

"Push her," Cersei said, and a man in red obeyed.

Tyrion and Shae cried out at once, but Shae's voice was cut short when the rope bit into her throat. She fell only about five feet and her neck didn't snap, rather choking her as she thrashed and kicked and clawed at it with her free hands. Boots pounded and Tyrion was on the stairs to the platform and only Bronn was with him, but the sellsword grabbed his collar and hauled him back as a Lannister man swung his blade awkwardly down from the high position, slashing only the open air.

"Cut the rope!" Tyrion shouted in vain. _Oh, Gods, what can I do?_ If only the lies were truth and she could turn into a wolf, then she could maul the lot of them and tear the rope with her teeth, but she was just a young woman fleeing a city with little more to protect her than a family name and a half man with a golden chain. _I could trade myself._ She very nearly did just that, but her legs betrayed her and she only stood, frozen, with the portcullis over her head and Shae choking and kicking in front of her.

Shae managed to get a good hold on the rope over her head and lift just an inch, gulping in air. "I said grab her wrists!" Cersei screamed, and the man in armor on the platform knelt down did just that. He had to squeeze Shae's hands in a crushing grip to get them free of the rope, and when he pulled her arms away she fell again, the rope cutting off her breath for the final time. Shae kicked and kicked and thrashed about and all the big strong men watched it happen. Only the smallest and weakest man tried to run up to her rescue, and his pet sellsword had to let his weapon fall clattering to the stone to haul Tyrion back with both arms. Her husband kicked feebly at the air and moaned while Cersei smiled. All were quiet except the creaking rope, Shae's bare feet striking wood, and the pounding of blood in Sansa's ears.

Eventually, the bare feet stopped striking. The body thudded against the platform and hung there, limp and motionless. The man on the platform let go of Shae's wrists and her arms dropped to her sides. Sansa realized she'd been holding her breath and let it all out with a whimper. Her heart slowed and her whole body felt like lead. Then, the only sound left was Tyrion's wails.

* * *

Sansa ran.

She ran down Aegon's High Hill, her braid secured by a ribbon and hidden under a shawl. She'd snatched a little cloth from her suitcase to complete the disguise and abandoned everything else by the bushes, not trusting herself to make the escape dragged down by the extra weight. _Out_. _I have to get out._ The direction hardly mattered. The sea, the sky, or burrowed into the very earth below King's Landing, Sansa would take anything as long as it wasn't between the walls and touching stone. _I should have given myself over. I could have saved Shae._

Of course, she was deluding herself with a child's fantasy. Cersei would have killed them both. "One of your whores escaped," the Queen had said. What did that mean, exactly? Obviously she was referring to Sansa, because Tyrion had no reason to hide a second mistress, but "escaped" could mean almost anything, from escaping her twisted view of justice to physically exiting the tower just moments before swords had arrived to butcher her like little Rhaenys Targaryen. _I don_ _'t care what the Queen meant._ Sansa was out, and that was all that mattered.

Buildings flew past as she fled down the wide center streets, a route normally under heavy patrol by the City Watch, but abandoned for the moment in favor of the defense of the walls. An avenue split off south towards the Blackwater Rush, promising a dock full of ships eager to leave this place behind, but the Queen's words crossed her mind yet again and she disposed of the idea. _Escaped._ Were they rummaging through her room right now, trying to figure out how she'd evaded them just in the nick of time? If so, the docks would be the first place they'd look for her, and all ships would be held at harbor until they were thoroughly searched for the refugee. She might have been well and truly safe in the Tower, that was true, but guessing at Cersei Lannister's intentions and capabilities was a fool's challenge and even less risky than throwing her lot in with thousands of twitchy sword arms and Stannis Baratheon.

So, she skipped the route to the docks, and continued on north and west towards the walls. The street would lead in a straight line past the Great Sept, and from there she would be at a crossroads to one of the major gates. Every now and then she had a clear view of the west wall through gaps in the buildings, and the barrels of burning pitch still soared over and landed amongst the streets and homes unlucky enough to be on the edge of the city. Pillars of smoke rose up from several points and combined into three great columns, barely visible under starlight, which Sansa interpreted to mean the Baratheon besiegers were focusing their fire on a handful of tactically chosen points.

She could only guess at the exact reason, but what was relevant to her current predicament was that the Lion Gate and King's Gate were simply unavailable to her as points of egress. She might pose as a fire-quencher with a bucket of water, then somehow slip past and fly over the walls like a bird, but the enemy would have their blood up on the other side and give her little time to argue her point or identify herself. The gates themselves, of course, would be a lost cause. She had to choose a point between the gates, or at one where the action was quiet enough that anyone keeping an eye out might turn that eye south to the assault.

 _The Gate of the Gods._ Far from the assault, it was, and as a bonus she only had to continue running in a straight line down the main street before reaching safety. She checked over her shoulder several times, but if a single soul had tailed her from Aegon's High Hill, they were obscured in darkness and silent enough that they could not be encompassed in armor. _Perhaps Cersei is pursuing me right now, her hair flying in the night and her eyes wide with hate and madness._ Her heart pounded and her stomach clenched against the exertion, but she pushed through the pain and ran until she found a second wind, air filling her lungs and her legs beating as pistons in clockwork.

Cobbler's Square was entirely abandoned, with the artisans probably dedicating themselves somehow to the defense of the city, and all the customers almost certainly huddled in their homes and prayed to the Seven to see them through unharmed. She paused in front of one of the empty stalls to catch her breath, looking back and forth between the leftover wares and the fires above the city. _How can I escape? Will I just plummet to the earth and trust my survival to luck?_ Her disguise would get her far, that was true, and she might even have to dodge arrows once on the ground, but she would be a trivial target lying in the mud with both legs broken. _I need something to help me down. A ladder, maybe._

No such luck. Stealing a ladder from the battlements would be a fine way to be caught, so she looked around for one of her own, but naturally anything that large and useful was already dedicated to the defense. The starlight showed her the leftovers in each stall, mostly odds and ends like extra nails, discarded bits of broken armor and shattered blades, empty crucibles, belts of leather, rope…

 _There it is._ Forty foot of rope lay in a loose coil next to a merchant's stall, probably dropped in haste as the owner fled. It was a thin and light variety, probably too thin to be useful for the stresses of combat or operation of machinery on the battlements, but perfect for a young woman who only needed it to slow her drop. She wrapped it over her shoulder, across her chest, and under her arm, as she'd seen men do a thousand times back home, then summoned the will to run back into her legs and headed out into the street.

Dawn came.

Sansa stopped short, gaping at the sight. For a second she thought she might have slept the night away in Cobbler's Square without realizing, but this was no sunrise over the eastern sea, but a great and terrible flash of light coming from outside the walls. Not a _flash_ , actually, but a small sun all on its own, a persistent burst of light that lit up the sky overhead and bathed the walls and the city itself in white. Not bright enough to blind her, not exactly, but enough that it fully lit the way to the walls and to freedom.

 _Stannis._ It could only be his sword, the mummer's trick that he had brought with him to the Blackwater. Back then she'd hid inside a room in Maegor's Holdfast with all the other useless people, but the stories had reached her immediately after the battle, and now she had the chance to see the majesty for herself. Lightbringer lived up to its name, and whether it was really some divine gift as the romatic types loved to say, or if it was just a simple magic trick from the East as the cynics held, Sansa could not say. What it was to her was a lighthouse on a stormy sea, a beacon that guided her away from the rocks and towards safe harbor, and a sure sign that she had one friend left in the world with enough strength to keep the lions at bay.

Her father had supported Stannis, she knew, and he'd died for it. Now, the Baratheon king was the only way she might live.

Stannis was just outside the Gate of the Gods, based on where the beam of light had appeared, and he was riding straight for the walls. He must have been attempting an assault on a third location, or a fourth, she couldn't keep track, but it hardly mattered. She ran for the gate herself, only a short run compared to what she'd just endured, and made easy by the fact that the street provided her an unbroken line all the way to the gate. People bustled near the wall, men and women and children of all ages, most of them carrying buckets that sloshed about with water from the river or the wells. She kept her head down and passed straight into the crowd at a brisk walk, being careful not to bump into anyone and draw attention. _They are all looking at Lightbringer._ Past the crowd she stalked, then by a patrol of distracted gold cloaks and around a group of red cloaks running for ladders up to the platform.

She pondered what supplies a guardsman defending against a siege might need delivered, and saw her answer before her in arrows. A dozen barrels were stacked and waiting against the wall itself, stashed underneath a set of stairs by the gate and nailed shut, but arrows had been painted on the side to let any escaping princesses know the best place to find a useful tool. She found an unobstructed barrel and pried at the lid, her nails clawing against the wood and coming back red, though she felt nothing. _I need a tool, a bar, something._

"What do you mean, still on the bay?" a highborn voice shouted above her head.

She recoiled and ducked in the shadows on instinct, but nobody was behind her. The voices were coming from the platform overhead, loud enough to be heard over the pounding of boots as men ran back and forth.

"I don't care what Ser Jaime says," the voice went on, "I just sent my men outside and- where is he? Where is he, boy? Show me!"

Sansa tuned them out for a second and felt around behind the barrels, finding a discarded wooden plank. _Good enough._ She stuck the flat end of the plank under the lip of the barrel and heaved with all her bodily strength. It groaned and shuttered and the nails loosened, but the plank snapped under the stress and sent splinters flying. One bit into her hand, but she yanked it out without a second thought and reached under the new gap with the heel of her hands. The lid was free after a final shove, or free enough, and she reached inside to snatch up a handful of arrows by the shaft.

Her hand came back bloody, sliced up by the razor-sharp arrowheads, but still she ignored the pain. People were yelling upstairs so she made sure to keep her head down as she ran up the steps, rope still secured to her chest, arrows grasped in her bloody hand. A pair of red cloaks brushed by her and she kept her head down. Finally, she was on the platform and level with the battlements, the gaps in stone just a few tantalizing feet away, and-

"Where are you going with those?" a young man said.

His eyes were wide with terror, a gold cloak was pinned to his shoulders, he clutched a spear with both hands. She paused and pointed vaguely towards the Gate of the Gods. "Request for more arrows, m'lord," she said, adding a shaky curtsy.

"Arrows? What've you got there, six?" he said, squinting at her. Had it not been for Lightbringer, he might not have been able to tell at all. "Who asked for six arrows? Go back down and get a wagon, or fasten a rope." He reached forward and tugged at the rope around her shoulder. "This won't do either! It'll snap under the barrel's weight. For gods sake, girl, let the men carry the heavy loads."

"Can you show me?" she whispered. "I'm scared from all the fighting, and I don't know-"

He threw up his hands in frustration. "Forget it." The angry voice from early shouted again, somewhat more distant. "That highborn bastard is angry about something, and- oh, look at that."

His eyes went wide and his jaw slack. He pointed over her shoulder, not towards the arguing men, but outside the wall, where Lightbringer lit up the night. Men were running towards the gate, and not Stag men either, but all wearing gold cloaks and not in any sort of ordered retreat. They were unarmed as well, their shields and spears all discarded in the trail of mud behind them, and they sprinted towards the Gate of the Gods as fast as their armored legs could carry them, because behind them came the knights.

"Oh, gods, they've lost the sally," he said, his knees quivering.

It was hundreds of them, she realized, and their pursuers were all ahorse and swinging heavy weapons designed for butchery. Heavy hacking swords, axes, maces, and flails flashed in the light of their king's magic sword, crashing into the terrified City Watchmen in flight. The bodies fell underhoof and still the horses pressed on, leaping from each target of opportunity to the next until the mass of survivors finally reached the gate.

It did not lift. Not even a groan or a creak. "Let them in!" the gold cloak shouted, waving his arms and running for the gatehouse. She agreed with him for their humanity, if nothing else. She wanted to see the gate open and the defeated soldiers flee inside to safety, but when the great mass of men pounded against the wooden doors, no answer came down from the walls whatsoever. The watchman reached the little gatehouse that sat directly overtop the gate, where a single man would operate a winch to pull the doors apart and lift the portcullis, but if he was inside, he was not interested in opening the doors.

The watchmen tried to push inside but someone pushed back. They exchanged words, steel flashed, and the guardsmen fell away bloody, plummeting from the platform down to the streets below. A man in a red cloak stuck his head out and looked around for anyone else that might challenge him, or maybe a witness, but if he considered Sansa a threat he didn't linger on her as he looked. Finally satisfied, he ducked back inside. _He_ _'s doomed the survivors._

And she could understand why. Stannis was on them, and not just his riders, but the king himself, Lightbringer held aloft. He halted his horse maybe fifty feet from the gate and let the others continue on, where the remaining Watchmen huddled against the walls as if it were an insurmountable cliff and they lived in fear of the tide. The horsemen closed the distance between them and the defenseless, defeated, and abandoned soldiers, but Sansa turned her head away just before the slaughter began. _I can_ _'t watch._

She took the distraction as an opportunity to duck away, hoping to get some distance before anything else happened, but boots were pounding behind her and angry voices came with them. She looked back over her shoulder, and saw two men running in her direction and arguing with one another about something. One of them had red hair not unlike her own, a youthful face and the gold cloak of the City Watch. The other was Jaime Lannister.

He was armored all in white, cloaked in white, and bathed in white thanks to the power of Lightbringer. She thanked the gods that he was lost in his argument, because the proximity of Stannis and his sword meant there were no shadows on the platform for her to hide in, nor an opportunity to leap from the walls unseen. _I have chosen the worst spot of all._ For a brief second she thought Ser Jaime was actually looking out for her on his sister's orders, but when she huddled against the battlements and let the two men stomp on by, he didn't spare a glance to the young woman standing in the open in the middle of a war.

"I said I never got the order," Jaime hissed, jabbing the other man in the chest with his false hand. "I've been waiting for ages and no signal has come up, not here, not anywhere. _You_ went early!"

The gold cloak stopped short and shoved Jaime with both hands, hard enough to rock him on his heels, but not enough to send him careening over the edge of the platform like the poor guard. All the men near the gate were drawn to the argument, so she unslung her rope in a hurry and started tying it off against one of the merlons. Her bloody hand slicked the cords as she worked.

"I won't stand here and be blamed," the gold cloak growled. "Not for this horror. I never wanted the job to begin with, but your father insisted, so I'm in here yelling at you instead of dying with my men. _Our_ men! Where is Tyrion? What is he _doing_?"

Ser Jaime sputtered some indignation, but he wouldn't know what had happened at the Red Keep, and Sansa wasn't about to reveal herself to tell him. Once she had enough of the rope tied off, she gave it as harsh a tug as she dared to test the knot, and it held firm. Life as a northern girl would save her one more time, she realized. _No southron cow would know how to do this._

"What is that girl over there doing?" the gold cloak said.

 _Now or never._ She threw the remaining length over the battlements and let it hang down against the wall. Lightbringer was closer than ever, and horses pranced about down below, bloody swords flashing in the air, lances held high. Every last man standing was draped in the Baratheon stag.

"You there!" Ser Jaime said, right behind her ear. A hand reached for her shoulder but she slipped it and vaulted the crenel in one bound. "You stop right this-"

She fell into the open air.


	17. Davos IV

DAVOS

"They hesitate," Ser Herbert said. "We should strike immediately."

The lion banner sat amidst the burned-out hovels near the King's Gate and illuminated by the pyres burning in the hulks of siege towers. Red-cloaked soldiers waited in the muddy field below, a flat bit of earth churned into soup by the boots of Ser Justin's vanguard during the first assault. Davos counted no more than six hundred men standing around the enemy banner, but those were just the soldiers who had bothered to march around the southwest corner of the city and reveal themselves to the Baratheon camp. _They could have thousands waiting by the Mud Gate._

"They've come while the king is distracted," Lady Selmy said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. She turned to Davos. "I would hear our Lord Hand's opinion on the subject, as his intuitions have served us well so far."

Ser Herbert huffed and sat down on a stool, leaning on his crutch and wincing as he touched his side. _Even command is dangerous ground for this one._ "A sloppy sally with devastating losses is no evidence of the Imp's handiwork, my lady. Military tactics are not the strength of, er-" he gestured weakly at Davos, "-one of his birth." _You are more right than you know._

"The Hero of the Blackwater would speak of tactics," Lady Selmy said, turning up her nose. "Tell us again about your brilliant maneuver against Renly Baratheon's shade, Ser Herbert. I've heard a man in green armor so frightened you that you turned your back to his riders' spears. Or did you take that wound in honest combat?"

Ser Herbert's face twisted into a snarl for only a moment and a touch of red returned to his cheeks, but the effort proved draining and he shut his mouth, sagging in defeat. Lady Selmy tittered and pointed down to the opposing armies assembled outside the walls.

"We outnumber them four-to-one on the heavy infantry," she said, "with plentiful reserves. Do you see any other oddities on the battlefield?"

Davos scanned the walls and the two gates within range of his vision. "No further sallies are coming, my lady. They have been abandoned." _Or, they are luring us into a trap._

She grinned and nodded. "You see? The king chooses his men well." She turned to face the distant glow of Lightbringer rising over the north wall. "As long as that light shines, Stannis lives, and victory is assured. The Imp's sallies have failed twice. We will smash them against the walls in short order."

"Had they come minutes sooner," Davos said, "they might have caught us with our vanguard still on the walls. They could have stormed our position with half the reserves and all of the skirmishers committed in the north."

Lady Selmy's grin widened, revealing sharp white teeth. "Had they."

Ser Herbert looked up with both pale eyes wide. "So, I was right?"

Lady Selmy ignored him. She grabbed the nearest messenger by the arm and whispered instructions to find Ser Justin Massey. "Tell him the Hand has ordered the advance," she said, looking to Davos for an objection.

"One moment," he said, thinking. "They've come from the Blackwater Rush," Davos said, more to himself than anyone else. "Not the Mud Gate. A relief force, then?"

"Ser Kevan most likely," Lady Selmy said, brushing away the question with a gloved hand. "I imagine he expected help."

"I would hope so," Davos said. "A commander wouldn't sit a small force out in the open like this, unless it was meant as bait. Not even a novice like me."

"A trap still looms large in the corners of your mind, I know, but take it from an old hand at this sort of business. Hesitation is the real trap, and it bites the general's wrist as the steel jaw does the bear's leg. We must trust our scouts, our spies, our knowledge of the enemy and the battlefield in front of us, and if we the conditions are favorable, we must shake our arm free and cast the die."

"The enemy seems so feeble. I can't imagine-"

Lady Selmy smiled and placed one gloved hand on Davos's arm. "Sometimes the enemy puts up a pooring showing than their breeding should allow. Sometimes you just _win._ _"_

Davos could continue the argument no longer, so he waved off the anxious messenger and went to find his horse. Lady Selmy joined him shortly after on her own mare, and they watched the night side-by-side from the vantage point of the king's camp. A small team of outriders returned from the river's edge, reporting that they'd followed the Rush all the way to the Bay and had not seen any reinforcements waiting by the Mud Gate or on the water itself. _I know something about staying hidden under darkness._ He kept his mouth shut and watched the advance begin, a cautious march with shields locked and raised overhead. Timid arrow volleys greeted them from the hillside, but no further attacks came from the walls, and though the smoke from the still-burning siege towers obscured most of the battlements, Davos could not see any motion there whatsoever.

The Lannister line, such as it was, locked together and held while Ser Justin's force marched towards them. The Stag banner drew closer and closer to the lion one, until the gap vanished and the centers met in a clash of shields and the war cries of fighting men. Firelight glinted off the steel and revealed the Baratheon men wrapping around the flank, down a shallow notch and back up again where the Lannister line shifted to meet them. _They have the high ground, but no numbers._ The flank pushed up and up until they were overtop and the enemy line shrunk and pushed back towards the wall. Still, no horn blew for the retreat, no gates lifted, no scouts came flying at them in a panic reporting a sneak attack, and no assassins appeared in the night to snuff out Stannis's command while they were focused on the battle below.

Nothing happened at all, except the inevitable. The Lannister line buckled and withdrew without orders, leaving the banner to fall and vanish under the boots of the advancing Baratheon vanguard. Lady Selmy clapped and shouted a high-pitched victory cry when she saw it, and some old man Davos didn't know slapped him on the knee and grinned toothlessly. Ser Herbert craned his neck from his stool and muttered some complaint about it being too dark to see.

"They'll retreat through the gate," Ser Davos said more to himself than anyone. "Ser Justin will pursue. We'll have the wall in minutes." _I can_ _'t believe it._

Yet, the gate remained shut. "They're going to crush up against it," Lady Selmy said. "They ought to have organized a managed retreat along the Rush. Could have gone in through the Mud Gate or crossed on rafts."

"Men fight like demons with their backs against the wall," Ser Herbert said between ragged breaths. He coughed and spat blood on the dirt. "We're in for a bloody victory."

Davos had known plenty of men in his life who would have fought to the death against incredible odds, betrayed by their own side and left to die in a pointless battle. Sometimes that was more a question of the commander than the commanded, but the most warlike men idolized the martyr and thought a gray beard a shameful thing for a man to grow. For a moment Davos wondered if the Lannisters had hand-picked that sort of soldier for the mission. Who else would stand under the banners of usurpers and traitors? Faithless lords had carelessly thrown away so many lives on both sides in pursuit of their own rotten ambitions, so why not toss these fine soldiers in the fire in one last desperate gamble? _They can_ _'t stop us from winning. All they can do is raise the price._

But the last stand at the closed gate showed the enemy to be the more common type, and upon seeing the battle reach its natural end, the fight blew out of them all in one great sigh. Swords and shields dropped, men fell away, others stepped over and through them with swords raised and the Stag banner swarmed what was left of the Lannister line. The cries and clashes of steel dimmed and died, and moments later Davos could only hear his own heartbeat and the roaring nightfires on the hillsides.

"Butcher's work," Ser Herbert grumbled from his stool.

"Mass surrender," Lady Selmy said. "You can't see anything sitting there. Ser Justin is merciful."

Before he could respond, Davos tapped his horse's flank and started down the hill. "We'll find out soon enough. Let's see who leads them."

* * *

"Captured twice in one war? You won't be so lucky the second time around, I promise you that."

Ser Justin still wore his blood-splattered armor and gripped the pommel of his sheathed sword. He wiped uselessly at his breastplate with a much-bloodied rag, then shrugged and tossed it aside. _Not his blood_. He also had the good sense to discard his ruin of a shield and remove his helmet before he drowned in his own sweat. Ser Justin's dark hair was matted across his forehead, and his wild eyes flitted from figure to figure, lingering on the terribly wounded Ser Lyle Crakehall.

The Strongboar was nearly as pale as Ser Herbert, though every time Maester Pylos tried to poke at his wounds, the big man waved him away. He'd let them strip away his broken armor, at least, and it had taken four squires to do the work. _Strongboar Crakehall deserves his name._ He was down to his blood-soaked arming doublet, torn in so many places that Davos could only guess how many wounds he'd taken, how deep, and where. He was one of the few men who could claim to be as big as Sandor Clegane, six and a half feet tall with shoulders like an ox, and though he was getting up in years, his ever-youthful face was made more fierce by the spattered blood of his enemies. The big man sat on his arse, leaning back on one hand while the other dangled across his knee, and he was doing the worst job imaginable at faking nonchalance.

He looked up to the victorious knight and forced an equally fake grin, while his chest heaved with deep, ragged breaths. "I've had worse. Bring me that false king of yours and tell him I'll duel him for the whole kingdom. He can even use his magic sword."

Ser Justin laughed and turned his back, then shook his head sadly and marched away. "Let the Onion Lord handle this one," he called back. He clapped another young knight on the cheek and then sauntered off with his head held high.

Davos stood among a crowd of Lannister men, all on their haunches and surrounded by Ser Justin's vanguard and two thousand naked blades. As he scanned their faces, he realized that severe wounds like Ser Lyle's were a rarity, and most of them had actually surrendered whole and with their armor still clean.

"How many men did you bring for the sally?" Davos asked.

Ser Lyle opened his mouth to answer, then arched an eyebrow. "We didn't- no, we came to lift the siege. We weren't stationed in the city."

"Quite a bold attack, ser knight, with as few men as you brought along."

" _Quality_ men," Ser Lyle said, his eyes hardening. He squeezed his hand into a fist. "And I'll not discuss the king's tactics with you, _ser knight._ "

Davos laughed. "I'm sure that eight-year-old boy devised a brilliant scheme to save the city." Ser Lyle blanched, but said nothing. "Where is the relief force? Are _you_ the relief force? Were you expecting the garrison to support you? What trap failed to spring?"

Strongboar Crakehall said nothing. He seemed to sink into the mud, so badly did his posture wither away, and he fell back on both elbows to spare himself the dishonor of dying with his hair in the mud.

 _Let_ _'s try another tactic._ "I'd heard you were captured in the Riverlands," Davos said. "But it looks to me you've broken your chains."

"Traded," he mumbled. "Prisoner for prisoner. I spent ages in a luxury suite in Pinkmaiden Castle while my men fought and died all over Westeros. Ser Jaime saw me freed, finally, so I came back to repay the favor."

"Robb Stark gave you up?"

He nodded. "For some bannerman. The fat one, I forgot his name. We made the trade after the Battle of Riverrun, and I rushed here to do my duty. Gods, I've been free less than a week."

"Freed with oaths, I assume?"

"Not to aggress against the Starks, yes, but I see no wolf banners flying above your night fires."

"True enough." Davos changed the subject back to what really concerned him. "Ser Jaime is Tommen's hand, then, if he is responsible for your short-lived freedom?"

Ser Lyle shook his head. "The Imp rules the realm, but his letter claimed that he had me released as a personal favor to his brother."

"I see." Davos cleared his throat, then looked up at the walls of King's Landing. "But Ser Jaime didn't join his forces with yours, did he?"

"Losses happen," he snapped. "If every battle went as planned, then wars would have only winners on all sides."

Davos wanted to push him for more information, but he could hear in his tone that the Strongboar meant to go to his grave without giving up anything that might be used against his liege lord. _He_ _'s revealed that Tyrion is the Hand, but he must believe that to be public knowledge._

"You should know we've captured Ser Kevan," Davos lied, "and we mean to negotiate a surrender without further bloodshed. Let our maester treat you and make yourself part of the bargain."

The wounded man's head snapped up and a glimmer of hope appeared in his eyes, but he swore softly to himself and let his head drop again. "My last duty is to preserve my king," he said. "You heard your man. Two captures, two failures. I'll not be party to another trade."

"No sense in just lying down to die, then," Davos said. "Wouldn't you be more use to your king alive?"

"I am only a middle son," he whispered. "This is my lot in life."

 _The Stranger take you, then._ "I hope you'll change your mind. Dragonstone's maester is here, and you only need ask."

Davos gave up on him and went to find Ser Justin and Lady Selmy. Judging by the growing beacon of light in the north, the king was riding back in their direction, and aside from some of the men cheering his return, the camp was mostly quiet. He stepped inside the familiar tent to find them scratching figures into parchments and asking pointed questions of a few scouts and outriders, all standing back with their heads bowed.

"The Imp commands the defense of the city," Davos said. "The trap failed, whatever it was. Ser Lyle expected the garrison to come out and join him."

"Six hundred men," Ser Justin said, holding up a parchment with numbers all over it. "Good men, too, but they surrendered quickly when they realized the gates weren't opening. Fought well for how poor the numbers were." He turned to Davos. "What was that about the Imp?"

He went over his conversation again. The two of them listened intently while Ser Herbert nodded off in the corner. Ser Justin, in turn, shared his adventures fighting on the battlements of King's Landing. By his account, he and his fearless warriors refused to give an inch of ground until the horns called for withdrawal. "I killed a dozen men," he finished, beaming. "A dozen, at least, and all of them cloaked in red. I wonder if the Kingslayer was among them."

 _He_ _'d be wearing Kingsguard white, you fool._ Davos knew something of losing his wits in the rush of battle, though, so he didn't give him any trouble over it. Lady Selmy's eyes went wide as the glow of Lightbringer grew stronger and stronger outside the tent. "Lord Davos, would you like to be the one to report victory to the king?"

"And steal the glory from this valiant knight?" Davos forced his best smile, though the young man only turned up his nose at him.

"Somebody has to take the credit," she said. "Where did Ser Lyle find six hundred men, anyway?"

"I didn't get that far," Davos said. "Lannisport, probably. If he was set free there and departed the same day, it is possible."

The conversation would have to wait. Light bright as day filled their tent, piercing the heavy canvas and beaming through the open flap. _He must have gone blind by now, looking into that madness._ The three of them stepped out of the tent with all the clerks and messengers crowding around behind. Davos stood in front with his chain lying openly across his chest, while Lady Selmy stood by his left shoulder and the bloody knight his right. As Stannis reached the bottom of the hill he slid Lightbringer into its sheath, extinguishing the spell, and the world around him returned to night. He passed between two torchbearers and rode up the hill, and by the time he reached the top and dismounted, Davos and everyone behind him had dropped to one knee.

"As you were," the king barked, and Davos stood.

"Ser Lyle Crakehall is captured," he said, "along with many hundreds of Lannister men. Ser Justin fought valiantly." Metal shifted behind him. "Losses were minimal. Were you injured?"

Stannis arched an eyebrow. "My arm's a bit sore from holding up that damnable sword, if that's what you mean." He stepped forward and the crowd parted. As he passed, Stannis put a hand gently on Davos's shoulder and nodded, then pointed back with his head. Davos followed his gaze and saw a tall young woman dismounting from a horse with a highborn lady's precision. She wore a long servant's dress and a rough auburn braid lay across her shoulder. The torchlight illuminated pale skin and a face of youthful beauty that drew the eyes of all the men at her side, plus those in Stannis's camp.

"I have some answers for you, my friend," Stannis said, and Sansa Stark joined them in the command tent.

Minutes later the rabble had been dismissed, leaving only Stannis's high councilors and Lady Sansa in the oversized room. Ser Justin finally left to strip out of his blood-spattered armor and returned shortly in clean clothes, though Davos spotted leftover blood drops near his collar, and he still stunk of sweat and iron. Stannis ordered his last page to leave them and close the tent on his way out, and at his command everyone took a seat.

The king barked an order for reports, and Davos allowed Ser Justin to catch him up while he studied Lady Sansa. She sat quietly next to the king, with her hands in her lap and a face set into a mask of iron. Her eyes followed each speaker in turn but otherwise she remained motionless until the report was finished and the king turned to her.

"The leadership in King's Landing is in flux," Stannis said. "Ser Justin would tell us he is the second coming of the Dragonknight, but we face a reduced and disarrayed enemy. If there are no more battles left in this sad little war, the bards will starve. Lady Sansa will explain."

She nodded and took a deep breath. "My lords and ladies," she said with a practiced melody of deference, "thank you for rescuing me from my long captivity in the usurper's clutches. My father announced his support for the king shortly before his capture and execution."

 _A good start. Invoke Lord Eddard, remind everyone how loyal you are._ The audience nodded sagely, but Stannis grunted. "You rescued yourself, as far as I'm concerned."

She acknowledged him with a short bow, then went over the chain of events after Tywin Lannister's death up through a power struggle between his children. Apparently Queen Cersei had demanded to be recognized as the realm's regent through her bastard son, and in order to eliminate any other claimants, she'd tried to arrest and execute her own uncle Kevan. Lacking the fortitude to compete with a woman for control of the realm, Ser Kevan had fled the capital and left Tyrion to manage affairs, but as the attack commenced, the power struggle had resumed and the defenses were left under the Kingslayer's care.

"Cersei had Tyrion's lover hanged," she said, looking down at her hands. For the first time in her speech, her voice wavered and her face creased with a deep frown. "It was horrific. I ran away immediately after."

"Where is Ser Jaime now?" Ser Justin jumped in.

"Commanding the defense of the wall," she said, "and unaware that he was expected to coordinate the counterattack. He was drawn north by Lightbringer, I think, and he left the rest of his garrison in disarray for lack of clear orders. I posed as a servant for a moment and him arguing with a City Watch captain about it."

"And then she climbed down from the battlements on a rope," Stannis said. He pointed to her hands as they rest in her lap. "Show them."

She hesitated for a second, then pulled off her gloves. Both hands were wrapped in thick bandages around the palm. "The chaos provided me a chance to escape, so I took it. I saw Lightbringer and I knew the king was here."

"Brave girl," Lady Selmy said, leaning over to squeeze her shoulder. "I expect no less out of a Stark."

Sansa smiled, and all of the men and women around the table nodded and joined their voices in assent. Stannis raised one hand and they all went silent at once. "She is brave, no doubt, but you've hardly heard the beginning of it. After my men brought her to me, you'd think she would argue for her own safety first, but she did not. Remind me, Lady Sansa, what was the first thing you said to me?"

She bit her lip and looked down into her lap again, then took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. All eyes were on her. "I asked the king to spare my husband, once the city is taken."

Low mutters echoed around the table. Ser Justin balked and raised one gloved hand in protest. "You don't mean the Imp, do you? Tyrion Lannister, the little dwarf that forced you to marry him?"

"That's not exactly correct," Lady Selmy said. "We've had consistent reports from the spies-"

"Let her speak," Stannis said.

After a moment of dead silence, Lady Sansa cleared her throat and continued. "He was just as forced as I was." Murmurs resumed and the king silenced them with a glare. "He never mistreated me, he never forced me, he actually risked his own life day by day to keep me safe from Cersei and Joffrey. He isn't the monster you all take him for, I promise you. He is…kind. Loyal, too, and if he gives the king his oath, he'll keep it."

"You call him your husband," Lady Selmy said, "but your marriage has no standing, is that right?"

She gulped and nodded. "That is right. The marriage was never consummated."

Ser Justin gaped at her and dropped his eyes to her chest. Davos glared at him and kicked his ankle under the table. _Keep it in your pants_. The knight flinched, coughed, and turned away before anyone else noticed, but Davos made a mental note to harangue him about it later. _He is a young man flushed with the excitement of battle. I will be easy on him._ Lady Selmy patted her on the back with a mother's gentle touch.

"I tend to believe her," Stannis said. "She has an honest face and she's Ned Stark's daughter, and I can see no other reason to speak on the Imp's behalf except that she is burdened by truth." He turned to Davos, and all other eyes in the room followed. "I would ask my Hand his opinion on honesty."

Davos met Sansa's gaze. "If Lord Eddard said the sky was green and the grass was blue, nature would change to make it true." Sansa's eyes lit up and her face broke into a wild, excited grin, while other laughed and nodded in assent. "It is as your grace says. But this is a decision to be made from inside the Red Keep, not inside a tent perched on a hill outside the city." Stannis nodded and Davos thought he caught a hint of a smile. "I will see to the lady's accommodations, if it pleases the king, while the soldiers in the room see to the business of war."

"Of course." The king stood, and everyone else stood with him. "While you're at it, find her a few highborn handmaidens. I won't have Robb Stark's sister treated like a common servant."

 _An odd remark._ Sansa bowed and thanked everyone for her rescue, then took Davos's arm as he led her out of the tent and into the night. _He_ _'s a bit too respectful of a usurper, no matter his pedigree and proven skill._ He puzzled over the comment for a minute, and after they were out of earshot, Sansa stopped him and looked into his eyes.

"You have to tell him to make peace with my brother."

Davos nodded. "The king wants nothing more than peace, I assure you."

"He's trying his best to be diplomatic," she said frowning, "but I already know what will happen if Robb refuses the bend the knee. The king is trying to convince me to make the North surrender. If I don't, I'm hardly any more free than I was an hour ago."

 _Gods, she_ _'s right._ Davos balked at the suggestion anyway and tried to sputter some protest, but she shut him up with a single raised finger. "I will do everything I can to mediate, I promise you," she said, then turned around and took his arm again. "I just need you to make the king see reason."

"Your father declared his loyalty to Stannis," Davos said carefully, "so I'd imagine your brother should do the same."

A low growl rumbled in her chest. "He rose up in rebellion against the Lannisters, but it was his bannermen that made him king. Do you think he can just put down his crown? Three hundred years later we still call my ancestor The King Who Knelt, and he faced the dragons. What do you think they will call Robb, who withered in fear of the stag?"

"The king will never allow his kingdom to split at the borders of the Riverlands," Davos said. "Kevan Lannister may have already been drawing the new maps, but his reign was short-lived."

"Oh." Sansa frowned and looked down at her feet as they walked. "I didn't know that. Tyrion was doing the same, actually. I just found out today. I didn't realize the peace talks began with Ser Kevan."

"I'm sure your family understands that whatever promises were made by the Lannister usurpers are null and void." She nodded. "What would you suggest, then, if your brother cannot or will not surrender?"

She thought that over for a moment as they approached a small tent at the edge of the camp. "If you'll allow me to mediate the discussion," she finally said, "I believe we can come to a reasonable compromise."

 _Stannis is well known for his reason._ "I can't imagine what that would look like, but I do want to give you the chance to surprise me. Whatever you come up with, I would like to bring the king a proposal by the time the city is taken. I don't want this victory to be marred by the risk of another war."

On hearing their voices a pair of handmaidens emerged from the tent, but Davos waved them away and they ducked back inside. Sansa watched them go, then looked up into his eyes. "Take me to the ravens, then. I'll write a letter to my mother immediately."

"After you've had time to rest," Davos said.

She shook her head vigorously. "The city won't last long. If you want this done in time, it'll have to be now. I've done nothing _but_ rest. I want to end the war with a pen."

* * *

It had been weeks since the nightmares had visited Davos, and he'd relished the reprieve, but when he found a few hours shortly after daybreak to take a nap, he fell once again into a world of burning ships and cackling succubi. One of the weapons was in his hand again - a gun, he knew, though the word was foreign to him - and he was crouching low in a tiny boat with oars that rowed under their own power. Fish-men leapt from the brack and clambered up the sides of the burning hulks to rut with the creatures atop it, and a small island of barren rock appeared shortly in the distance, illuminated by a ring of burning corpses tied to stakes.

In the midst of the sacrifices stood a great stag of monstrous size, his knees as high as a man's head and his antlers seeming to reach to the clouds. He dug at the moss and stone with his hooves, snorting and pacing in circles, a challenge to Davos to come ashore and do battle. He stroked the gun in his lap and checked the chamber, flicked off the safety and select fire, and patted his cloak to remind himself of the extra magazines. _It won_ _'t be much of a battle, friend._

When the bullets started flying, he woke.

A few minutes later he rose from his cot, washed his face and put on his chain of office. _Exhaustion, and fear of the red woman_ _'s curses. Sailors are superstitious by nature._ He repeated his reassurances out loud before gathering his courage and stepping out into mid morning and the Baratheon camp, heading for the raven master with letters on his mind. Sansa had sent several of her own during the night, starting with personal letters that she'd asked him not to read and ending with a diplomatic appeal that he'd helped her craft. _Not that I was any use._ If the birds were not shot down on their long flight to the Twins, they could expect a response in just under four days at the longest, shorter if the winds were favorable. Stannis would have taken the city walls by then, he knew, but the Red Keep might hold out in hopes of a relief force led by Lord Tyrell.

So Davos sent an extra letter to Tumbleton, as he had several times before, asking Lord Footly to rush a message of peace to Lord Tyrell on his long march to the capital. Images of his nightmare returned to torment him as he drew out the words, but he banished them with a few moments of shut-eye and a reminder of the supremacy of the natural. _They do not grow stags that tall, I don_ _'t think._ He wrote that the Lannister cause was nearing its expected conclusion, that Sansa Stark was in their possession, and that she would be traded back to her brother in exchange for peace. Soon all the realm would be united against the false king, his letter insisted, and if Mace Tyrell wanted to come to the capital he should do so on bended knee, lest he be overwhelmed by slavering monsters of the black sea and torched in the fires of the damned.

 _Oh, gods._ Davos read the letter he'd just written, his good hand shaking. _Just need to rest is all._ A raven keeper hovered over his shoulder but he crumpled up the letter before anyone could see his shame. "Spelled a word wrongly," he muttered. "Clumsy, I know. Very sorry." The young man sighed and walked off.

Davos made sure to tear up the letter and tossed the incriminating part in a tiny brazier. It was supposed to only be lit at night, but he fired it quickly and watched the letter turn to ashes and smoke. With that issue resolved, Davos took out a new parchment and tried again, and managed to finish the whole task without a single slip of his nightmares into the world of the living.

Once the last raven flew with his message tied around its talons, Davos sought out Sansa to ask about her health. She was still awake and sitting on a bench outside her tent, fidgeting with her bandaged hands and staring off into the west. He cleared his throat and she turned around. Her face glowed with energy despite the long night, and she wore a black-and-gold stag dress that dragged low on the ground and fit her shoulders well. _She_ _'s almost as tall as Lady Selyse, but wears the dress much better._

"Yes?"

"Just wanted to make sure the lady is well."

She nodded. "Thank you, but I will not be truly well until I stand inside Winterfell once again."

 _Good answer._ "King's Landing will have to do for now. The assault begins soon, my lady, and I'll need you to accompany me inside."

"To ask for my lord husband's surrender, I assume."

He nodded. "We'll ride in once the gates are thrown open, and as soon as the Red Keep is surrounded, you'll make your appeal."

She arched an eyebrow. "Won't you be leading the men?"

"I'm not much use in a fight," he said, raising his left hand. "Can't hold a shield properly, you see. Then again, I can't read either, and the king has me writing letters all day."

She smiled and raised her own, still-bandaged hand. "I bet you at least know how to grip a rope."

Davos laughed, deep and genuine. "Can't do much with a ship if you can't handle ropes. You've got me on that one."

She stood and offered a short curtsy. "I'll prepare myself and join you shortly."

Less than an hour later, the new set of siege towers were ready for a second try at the wall, ten more tall wooden constructs pulled by oxen and made from lumber stripped from the Kingswood. The smoldering hulks of the last wave of towers still sat under the wall, and some of them even looked to remain in repairable shape. _The garrison can_ _'t be bothered to step outside and clear them away._ Stannis had lost so few men in the failed assault and twin battles that his army looked almost identical to the one that he'd gathered in the same place a day before. _If we_ _'d been less cautious, we could have easily forced the walls._

He thought of Lady Selmy's assurances, made shortly before the last battle. _Sometimes you just win._ Luck had blessed them more than anything, luck and the neverending internal Lannister politics. Ser Lyle's elite soldiers could have wiped out the command structure and broken the reserves entirely, had they appeared at exactly the right time, as Ser Justin's force would have been stuck on the walls with a garrison looking up at them from one side and a red cloak army from the other. The king would have been cut off north of the city and eventually surrounded and killed. Instead, the Imp had been taken away from his duties at the crucial moment, Ser Lyle had hesitated while waiting for a command that never came, and by the time he took the initiative to attack, the garrison had no idea where, when, or how to join him.

The Strongboar had died overnight, he learned. _A foolish waste._ The rest of his men remained bound and stripped of their arms, but were otherwise unhurt and would likely be released freely after the end of the war. Stannis had only brought back a handful of prisoners from his attack on the north side of the walls, as the City Watch's break and run had turned into a terrible slaughter all the way until the gates. _Speaking of fools, even I know not to flee on foot from a horseman with a spear leveled at my back._ After the king took his throne, Davos knew, the City Watch would have to be rebuilt. _A minor labor, compared to the rest._

But, in the meantime, the roaring lion still flew over the wall. _They don_ _'t even pretend anymore._ During the Battle of the Blackwater, Joffrey had adopted a lion-and-stag crest to emphasize the duality of his bloodline, but someone had torn that down in favor of the principle of honesty. _They should change it to two lions rutting._ Davos put on his cloak and lord's finery, then found a horse and went to find Sansa before the next assault began.

She was gone from her tent. A short search and questions of the handmaidens led him back to the command tent, where he found her talking alone with the king in the same black-and-gold dress as before. _Can_ _'t take my eyes off that one for a moment._ He caught the tail end of the word "Lannister" as he joined them.

"There's my Hand now," the king said, hooking both thumbs into his belt. "Lord Davos, our guest has made another request of me and says you support her decision."

"Uh-"

"Parlay," she said, before he could speak. "We talked about negotiating a surrender with Lord Tyrion earlier, remember?" The lie rolled off her tongue so naturally that he believed it himself. "There's hardly any need for further bloodshed. Call for the parlay and let me speak with him, and I'll give you the castle without a sword clearing a sheath."

Davos found himself nodding. "Aye. Peaceful resolutions, and all that."

"My Hand agrees the Imp will surrender his nephew? Just like that?"

Sansa jumped in before he could answer. "He is a kind man, but he has a selfish streak too, and if we appeal to it I think he'll see reason. We can promise to spare the boy-"

"Can't happen," Stannis said suddenly. "I'm sure Davos would prefer to see Tommen Hill alive in exile, if we ever let him speak, but we all know that can never happen. Isn't that right?"

 _Gods above._ This was _the_ question, the elephant in the room that Davos hated to even think about, let alone discuss in the open, but in the end the king would have to make a decision one way or the other. Tommen obviously had no valid claim to anything, but that hadn't stopped Aegor Hill from tearing the realm apart a hundred years ago, and that wouldn't stop some other ambitious pretender from doing the same now.

"I know my history," Davos said quietly. He turned to Sansa. "The king is right on that count. We can't promise to save the boy, but perhaps we can appeal to your husband's understanding of military tactics. He could spare himself and the realm a lot of trouble if he surrendered immediately."

She looked down at her hands and flexed her fingers. "I understand. I'll do the best I can, I promise, just bring me to the parlay. I'll give you King's Landing."

Davos and Sansa waited at the bottom of the hill for ten minutes before getting a response from the garrison on the walls. A young squire bearing the Selmy sigil held the parlay flag behind them, and the answer came from a red cloaked soldier standing in the battlements near the King's Gate. Another twenty minutes of silence went by, and just when Davos was getting impatient, the great wooden doors creaked open and a portcullis lifted far enough to fit a man riding a horse.

"As long as it isn't Cersei who comes out," Sansa said, "I think we'll be fine."

Davos grunted. _The Kingslayer might give us trouble, too._ There weren't any kings at sword's reach for him to slay, and the two of them were surrounded by twenty knights in the finest and bloodiest armor they could find, but Ser Jaime wasn't known for his restraint.

Horses stepped under the gap, a column of Lannister men in identical plate armor with tall kite shields and sheathed swords at their side. As they rode out of the gate, they immediately split into a wide line, reaching a number of about two dozen abreast, by his best count.

"It's Tyrion," Sansa said, squinting at the center.

 _I must be getting old._ The figures were all a blur to him at that distance, but the center parted and a child-sized horsemen rode up to fill in the gap. A man in splendid white armor came next, followed by blue armor and a figure halfway between man and boy.

"That's his squire," Sansa said, still peering. "And Ser Jaime, and the warrior woman Brienne. She says she's on our side, but I don't believe her."

Davos grunted. "I met her a few days ago. She was wearing the same blue armor."

"Jaime says she fights as well as any man."

Davos recalled the last attempt at parlay, where Brienne and Jaime had bickered amongst themselves and accomplished nothing. "She is physically impressive, I'll give her that, but she seems as much in the Lannister camp as any lion, and she doesn't offer them much more than a sword arm and a strong back."

The other line advanced and Davos lightly spurred his horse. Sansa met his pace and their guards followed. "She said she served my mother. I should have asked in the letters."

"Send another one when we're done here."

The lines closed enough that Davos could better make out the plain face of Brienne of Tarth, Tyrion's stub nose, and Ser Jaime's golden hair. _An odd trio_. Most of their troops stopped short, but those three plus their squire continued, and Davos beckoned for two of his soldiers to do the same. The two smaller groups met in the center and Tyrion greeted them first with a bow and a wave.

"Sansa," he said, grinning broadly and staring at her. "Thank the gods. I thought you were dead."

"I told you she'd be fine," The Kingslayer said. "She was smart enough to bring a rope, after all."

"I saw an opportunity to escape and I had to take it," she said, then frowned. "I'm sorry about Shae. I saw it happen, but I-" she swallowed deeply. "I was as powerless as you were. I had to get away for fear of Cersei coming for me next."

 _Shae must be the the lover she spoke of._ Davos cursed himself softly for not asking for more details on that end, but it seemed inconsequential at the time. Tyrion's eyes deadened for a moment and he looked down at his saddlehorn, rubbed the ruins of his nose and nodded.

"Wait, you were there?" Ser Jaime said, looking back and forth between Sansa and Tyrion. "Where the hell were you hiding? Cersei was going mad looking for you."

"Lady Sansa-" Brienne started, but Jaime shot her a glare and she shut her mouth.

"My sister decided that our friend here would make a fine substitute," Tyrion said. "She was convinced Brienne had stolen you away somehow, no matter what Jaime told her about red-haired serving girls and daring escapes. It was an unpleasant night."

 _Gods above, enough of this._ "My lords and ladies," Davos snapped, "you can discuss this in private later. We are here to discuss terms of surrender."

"I've come in hopes that we may find a peaceful end," Sansa said.

Jaime laughed. "So you convinced Stannis to sail back to his little rock?"

" _Your_ surrender," Davos said. "You should know that your friend Ser Lyle perished of his wounds. We offered treatment from our most skilled maester, but he refused."

He studied Ser Jaime's face for a reaction, and he did not disappoint. The Kingslayer bared his teeth in a snarl and his face reddened all the way down to his throat. He wrapped his hand- _his left hand, oddly enough_ \- around the hilt of a sword, but Tyrion leaned over and grabbed his wrist before he could draw. The brothers whispered harsh words back and forth before Jaime finally relaxed and leaned back in his saddle.

"The Strongboar was helpful in his final moments, though," Davos continued. "He felt betrayed and abandoned on the field, left to die or surrender in shame. He men were forced to do a mixture of the two after he fell on the front lines. We are aware of the weakness of your position, Ser Kevan's disappearance, and the lack of qualified leadership inside the capital. We know your best tactic failed and you have nothing left." _Now for the gamble._ "We know Mace Tyrell's laze has you worried he may never come, and we plan on having control of the city and the protection of the walls before he arrives. The truth is we have been discussing terms with Tyrell since the day Lord Tywin died, and when he finally arrives, it will be through wide open gates on bended knee. I suggest you discuss terms while they are still available."

It was what the books said to do. Davos had not wasted his recent education learning to read children's fables, but had studied treaties on diplomacy from Septon Barth and Jahaerys the Conciliator, among others, and in a negotiation a calculated lie was often stronger than any truth. Ser Lyle was not here to dispute the accusation and history had shown Mace Tyrell, for all his wealth and power, to be the least reliable military ally in the Seven Kingdoms.

"Liar," Jaime spat, but Tyrion cautioned him again and Davos let the two brothers continue to argue it out in hushed tones. He studied Brienne's face instead, and saw that she wore an expression of intense determination when she looked at Sansa. The Maid of Tarth unconsciously opened and closed her hand around the pommel of the sword she wore at her hip, and the two Baratheon soldiers next to Davos shifted uncomfortably in their saddles.

"He'll surrender," Sansa whispered in Davos's ear. "Just watch."

"To the Seven Hells with all of you," Jaime said, turning his horse around as if to leave. He rode only a few paces away before grabbing his reins and wheeling around yet again. "You can't. You can't let them have my- the king, you _can_ _'t!_ " The Kingslayer seemed to ignore everyone else around him, looking down at his brother with anger, then appeal, and finally a tear-stricken pleading. "Tyrion, we have to hold until he gets here. _Think_ about what you're doing."

"I have spent the last years thinking and thinking," Tyrion said. He looked to Sansa and shame fell across his features. "It seems I am doomed to prostrate myself underhoof, one way or another."

"There will be trials," Davos said. His phantom fingertips tingled at the touch of victory. "I can't make undue promises on behalf of the king, but I can at least promise justice."

"Tommen has done _nothing,_ " Jaime cried, snatching his brilliant sword out of the sheath and waving it high in his left hand. Swords cleared sheaths all around and hoofbeats struck the plains behind and around him.

 _This war is mad, a battle of thieves and children._ "Tell the oathbreaker to put his fucking sword away," Davos snarled. "Restrain your man or the assault begins in minutes."

"I will _not_ surrender the boy," Jaime spat. "Where is your false king, onion knight? Tell him to bring his whore's knife here and fight for his kingdom. Right here, right now, the ugly fucking chair and all the shit-stained peasants that come with it, all of it on the balance of one fight. Or does he fear a one-handed knight?"

Tyrion shouted at him to stand down but the madman spurred his horse and leapt forward in a sudden gallop. He brushed past Tyrion's little extended hands and cleared the line, but stopped short before reaching Davos and turned his horse around in place with a savage tug on the reins. Sansa yelped and Davos reached for her, but she was already pulling back and away with soldiers stepping forward to cover the gap. Both lines drew closer with less than ten paces between them, the Imp and his squire hidden away and Sansa safely back behind Stag men. Only Ser Jaime and his kicking, spitting horse remained in the grounds between.

The animal spun in circles, thrashing against the bit. "Come out and fight for you kingdom, craven!" Ser Jaime screamed, waving his sword.

 _I cannot show any doubt._ Davos refused to look over his shoulder and watch for the king's response, as much as he wanted to see it. Instead he set his jaw, gripped his reins and stared down the Kingslayer. After a minute or two of his tantrum, Ser Jaime realized that everyone was watching him and nobody was moving, not to his defense nor to bring out the man whom he'd challenged to mortal combat.

"He's going to kill the child," he finally said, his voice cracking. "He's going to _kill_ him. Why would you serve a man like that?" _Two bodies, wrapped in red._ _Look inward, Ser Jaime, and learn the answer to your question._

The Imp was shouting from behind the wall of steel but Jaime ignored him and kicked his poor horse again, but before he could move Brienne was there, still on her horse with her sword sheathed. She grabbed his wrist with one hand and his reins with the other, snarling and pulling and wrestling until both horse and rider calmed down and stopped struggling. The sword fell from his limp hand to the earth with a thud. He shuddered, then sagged against her plated breast and wept like a child. She pulled him into an embrace and they sat there like that for a few sad minutes while the soldiers on both sides withdrew and sheathed their weapons.

Tyrion Lannister rode up alone with both hands empty and spread wide. "You said something about terms?"


End file.
